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STORIES 



FROM 



THE LIPS OF THE TEACHER. 



RETOLD BY A DISCIPLE. 



i Octaves Brooks Tro £Av?j,©*Aa>->-»vj 

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BOSTON: 

WALKER, WISE, AND COMPANY, 

245 Washington Street. 
18 63. 



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The Library 
of Congress 



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WASHINGTON 

Entered according to Act of Congress, in the year 1862, by 

WALKER, WISE, AND , COMPANY. 

in the Clerk's Office of the District Court of the District of Massachusetts. 



z L n? 



LC Control Number 




tmp96 027746 



University Press: 

Welch, Bigelow, and Company, 

Cambridge. 



PREFACE. 




HOUGH this little volume is offered to 
children, the writer of it wishes to say 
a few words to those who are not chil- 
dren, to explain his purpose in offering it. He 
has long been persuaded that the parables of 
the New Testament were waiting to be presented 
in a new form to modern readers, and espe- 
cially to young readers ; — partly because long 
intimacy with them has impaired their vividness, 
rubbed off the bloom of their poetic beauty, and 
even rendered the mind insensible to the delicacy 
of their truth; partly because the use that has 
been made of them for doctrinal instruction has 
weakened very much their value as stories sug- 
gesting spiritual thoughts to the imagination, and 
has even perverted them from their original aim 
by associating them with theological opinions ; 



IV PREFACE. | 

and more particularly because the more prosaic 
mind of the West finds a difficulty in supplying 
the details which are necessary to the complete- 
ness of the stories themselves. 

The parables were spoken by an Oriental to 
Orientals, and were understood immediately, even 
in the brief form in which they were uttered. 
They were so imbued with the spirit of the peo- 
ple to whom they were addressed, so native to 
the soil, so fragrant with the aroma of the ground, 
so bright with the Eastern sunshine, so breezy 
with the Eastern air, — they were so full of local 
allusions, they reflected so clearly the manners 
and customs of the country and the period, that 
no amplification was necessary. The reciter could 
leave his auditors to fill up the empty spaces in 
the little narrative. A few words were sufficient to 
present a landscape, which we can picture to our- 
selves only by a diligent study of guide-books; 
to recall a scene which fancy alone can paint for 
us, and which fancy can do scarcely more than 
sketch; to suggest a familiar usage, which we 
become acquainted with through the medium of 
the antiquarian; to describe an event, for which 



PREFACE. V 

we must refer with much misgiving to the uncer- 
tain chronicle or tradition. The short tale of two 
or three sentences was long and full to those 
whose fancy could furnish instantly all that the 
speaker omitted, and could put in the requisite 
light, shade, and color on the spot. But all this 
advantage of time, place, knowledge, genius, is 
lost for us. They who have the information ne- 
cessary to make the parables speak, commonly 
lack the fancy, and they who have the fancy, 
commonly lack the information. 

It has been the object of the writer of this little 
book to supply, so far as he could, these grave but 
inevitable deficiences; to make the parables of 
Jesus suggest to our minds, in some degree, what 
they suggested to the minds of their first hear- 
ers ; to put in, if he may say so, the Eastern cli- 
mate, the sunshine, the atmosphere, the scenery; 
to revive the associations with places and people, 
and to connect them with, the circumstances that 
gave them birth. To this end he has allowed 
himself necessarily a good deal of liberty in his 
treatment of the material before him. He has 
woven into the stories descriptions of the coun- 
1 



VI PREFACE. 

try, sketches of popular habits and observances, 
details of out-door and in-door life in Judaea ; he 
has drawn on his own fancy for connecting links 
and incidental details ; he has thrown in passages 
of dialogue and of soliloquy; he has amplified hints; 
he has endeavored to give here and there some- 
thing of dramatic movement to the narrative, as 
one naturally would do were he telling the sto- 
ries himself to a company of children. In a 
word, he has attempted to do for the Westerns 
what the Orientals did for themselves. That he 
has fully succeeded in this undertaking, he is not 
presumptuous enough to think. He will meet 
with all the success he looks for, if he shall ren- 
der in any degree more attractive these most 
beautiful and deep apologues of the Master, or 
shall help any to see more distinctly the form of 
truth under the garb of beauty ; he will meet 
with more success than he looks for, if he shall 
accomplish anything towards making the New 
Testament a more living book to the young 
people of his day. 

O. B. FROTHINGHAM. 
New York, October, 1862. 



CONTENTS. 



PAGE 

Introduction 5 

The Sower ........ 15 

The Tares 26 

The Mustard-Seed 46 

The Supper ........ 55 

The Lost Sheep ....... 67 

The Prodigal Son ....... 84 

The Good Samaritan . . . . . . 112 

Dives and Lazarus ....... 130 

The Ten VirgIns 148 

The Talents 162 

The Pharisee and the Publican . . . . 119 



INTRODUCTION. 




NEED not tell you, my dear children, 
that Jesus, the Great Teacher, was in 
the habit of telling stories to his friends, 
and the people who came about him, sometimes 
in crowds and sometimes in small companies, to 
hear him talk. 

These stories are called Parables, and are writ- 
ten in the New Testament. They are short 
fables or tales ; sometimes true tales of men and 
women who actually lived, and of events that 
really happened; sometimes imaginary tales of 
men and women who might have lived, and 
events that might have happened. Sometimes 
they were little histories, and sometimes they 
were little poems. 

Whichever they were, they were meant, not 



6 INTRODUCTION. 

to amuse the listeners, or to entertain them as 
parents entertain their children, but to instruct 
them in the truths of religion and in the rules 
of good life. The instruction was given in this 
form because it was more attractive, and more 
impressive : it would be listened to more atten- 
tively, thought of more earnestly, and remem- 
bered more distinctly, than if it had been given 
as the catechism gives it. The Eastern people 
were very fond of this mode of teaching. The 
Persian and Arabian writings are full of parables. 
We find them in the Greek and Roman books. 
The fables of iEsop are parables from the Greek. 

Many very beautiful stories of the same kind 
are told in the Old Testament. You remember, 
for example, the lovely little tale of the pet 
lamb, which the prophet Nathan told to David 
the king, when he wished to make him feel how 
wicked he had been in taking away the wife of 
his friend. The king heard the story, and was 
touched to the heart by it; but he would have 
been very angry if the lesson it contained had 
been preached to him in a sermon. 

But of all stories, none are so beautiful as some 



INTRODUCTION. 



of those which Jesus told to his friends ; none 
have so much meaning in them ; none present 
to the mind such sweet pictures of scenery and 
life. They must have been very fresh and vivid 
to those who heard them; and if they are not 
so fresh and vivid to you, it is because you are 
little Americans, and not little Jews ; because you 
live in the United States, and not in Palestine ; 
and because you are alive now, and not when 
Jesus was, nearly two thousand years ago. 

You must remember that the country which 
Jesus was born in differed from ours in almost 
everything. 

The cities did not look like our cities ; the 
fields did not look like our fields. Spring, sum- 
mer, autumn, winter, were not the same that 
they are here ; for the land was situated on the 
other side of the globe, and of course had a 
peculiar climate. This climate had a great deal to 
do with forming the habits of the people. Men 
and women wore light, loose clothing, and lived 
for the most part in the open air. 

They had no large halls such as we have, but 
all their public meetings were held out of doors 



8 INTRODUCTION. 

in the market-place. There were no newspapers, 
and no books, and, so far as we know, there were 
no schools. A few persons who were rich had parts 
of the Scriptures written on parchment ; and in cer- 
tain places called synagogues, or meeting-houses, 
learned men used to read and explain the Scrip- 
tures to such as chose to come and hear. Very 
few of the people could read or write, and they 
would not have been much better off if they 
could, for there was but one book to read, and 
that was too rare and costly to own, while in 
regard to writing, there was not much to write 
about, for people did not travel as we do, nor 
trade as we do. It was not often necessary to 
send a letter from one place to another, because 
the members of families remained more closely 
at home. 

.A class of persons called Scribes did nearly 
all the writing that was done, and their time 
was occupied chiefly in copying books of Scrip- 
ture, or in making law-papers, wills, and con- 
tracts. These men would sit in some .public 
place, ready to write a letter, draw up an ac- 
count, or make out a bill for any one who chose 
to call on them. 



INTRODUCTION. ( 9 

The great doctors, rabbins as they were called, 
the learned men, the students of the Law of 
Moses, lived apart by themselves, and wrote long 
rolls of parchment full of words about the holy 
books; but of all this the people knew nothing, 
and cared nothing. 

Jesus did not belong, you must understand, 
to this learned class. He was not a famous doc- 
tor; he was not skilled in the Law. He was 
taught by the Holy Spirit, and had the Word 
written on his heart. He was one of the people ; 
he lived among the people, and spoke to the 
people in their own speech, and in a way they 
could understand. He spoke to them whenever 
he met them. He had no grand church, no 
large congregation, such as famous preachers have 
to-day. He did not speak from a pulpit ; he 
wore no silk robe ; he wrote no sermons ; he 
preached on no particular day ; he prepared no 
long discourses, delivered no lectures. Whenever 
he found a place and a few people, he talked to 
them in his simple and beautiful way, as a wise 
friend talks to his friends, or a parent talks to 
his children. Often he discoursed in the streets 



10 INTRODUCTION. 

and squares of a city, in a porch, under an awn- 
ing, at the house and table of a friend; oftener 
his speeches were made in the country, as he 
sat in a fishing-boat, or rested beneath a tree, 
or reclined on a hill-side, or walked from place 
to place along the highway, or crossed the fields, 
or lingered on the banks of the river Jordan. 

When the caravans came in, with their long 
strings of camels and troops of slaves, from Egypt, 
Arabia, or Babylon, and the merchants displayed 
their goods in the booths, making the narrow 
streets gay with their silks and gems, and the 
people thronged the square to hear the news 
from beyond the desert and the sea, Jesus was 
there in the crowd, w r aiting an opportunity to 
say his word. On the great feast-days, when the 
multitude flocked to Jerusalem, Jesus was there, 
standing on the great staircase, or walking on 
the marble pavement of the temple courts, ready 
to converse with all he met ; or he might be 
seen in the synagogue, conversing with the doc- 
tors and explaining the Scriptures. The largest 
portion of his time was passed in the country, 
amid the wild scenes of lake and mountain, among 



INTRODUCTION. 11 

plain villagers, surrounded by the associations of 
rural life. His text was usually a phenomenon 
in the aspect of nature, or a feature in the land- 
scape. It was the sunshine, the rain, the whisper- 
ing wind, a fig-tree with nothing on it but leaves, 
a tower begun and left unfinished, the ruins of 
a house washed away by a mountain torrent, a 
draught of fishes sorted at the lake shore, a 
heap of pearls arranged in a bazaar by some 
wealthy trader from the East. 

His sermon was commonly illustrated by one 
of these beautiful parables, in which the deepest 
truths of religion were shown in some lovely 
emblem, or adorned by some striking and pictu- 
resque comparison. 

If he wanted, for example, to make men feel 
the goodness of God, he pointed to the sunshine 
that fell on all fields alike, and to the rain that 
watered the gardens of the wicked as willingly 
as the gardens of the good. If he wished to 
tell them how the heavenly glory was given to 
little things, he spoke of the lilies which grew 
all over the valleys, and lived but for a few 
hours, yet were dressed more gorgeously than 



12 INTRODUCTION. 

Israel's richest and most magnificent king. In- 
stead of preaching a sermon on Providence, he 
bade people notice the quiet grass, that simply 
stood in its place and waited for the light and 
dew, or the careless birds, that built their nests 
and fed their young, and spread out their wings 
on the air, and were cared for by Him who 
made them as they were, and made them for 
the world he placed them in. The seed-corn 
planted in the ground, and mouldering in its 
little grave, that the shoot and stem and leafy 
stalk and golden-colored fruit might come up and 
flourish in the upper air, beautiful and foodful 
for men and women, was sermon enough for him 
about the Immortal Life and the Eesurrection. 
Was it necessary to make men believe that they 
were worth something, and could do something 
in the world, he stopped by the woman making 
bread, and called attention to the way in which 
the little lump of leaven made the immense 
lump of dough light and good to eat. 

He always had a story at hand for his purpose. 
Sometimes it was a very little story indeed, that 
could be all told in very few words, and some- 



INTRODUCTION. 13 

times it was quite a long history, with many 
incidents and several people in it. 

I purpose telling you now some of these stories 
as well as I can in my own way. I cannot tell 
them as Jesus told them, in his own most beautiful 
language ; I must use such language as I have, — 
language which you perhaps will be able to un- 
derstand better than the Eastern speech that he 
used. But I shall say nothing which he might 
not have said, — at any rate, I shall say nothing 
that he has not put into my mind, — and I hope 
I shall say nothing that will not help you to 
understand and enjoy his own pure and simple 
teaching. 

The first story I shall tell you is about listen- 
ing, about welcoming good w^ords, and changing 
good words into good actions. It is a very ex- 
cellent story to begin with, as you will see. 




THE SOWER. 

|T chanced one day that Jesus was walk- 
ing through th& farming country, with 
three or four of his friends, who called 
themselves his disciples, or pupils. 

They went with him wherever he went, be- 
cause they loved him, and liked nothing so well 




16 STORIES FROM THE LIPS OF THE TEACHER. 

as to be in his society, and hear him talk, even 
when they did not understand everything he 
said to them ; which was very often the case, for 
they were unlearned people, and required to 
have thoughts made very plain to them. 

It was the spring time, the season for plant- 
ing, and the fields far and near as they went 
along were dotted with farmers busily throwing 
the seed by handfuls into the ground. 

The Master had been telling his pupils some of 
his most precious truths about the Kingdom of 
Heaven, or the good time coming, as we should 
say, when the beautiful angels should dwell on 
the earth, and wars should be over, and prison- 
ers should be let out of prison, and slaves should 
be freed; when the great should help the lit- 
tle, and the wise should teach the foolish, and 
the high should lift up the low, and the rich 
should take care of the poor; when the hungry 
should be fed, and the naked should be clothed, 
and the sick should be healed, and the sorrow- 
ing should be comforted, and the wicked should 
be made to love God, and all men should live 
in charity and kindness together like one great 



THE SOWER. 17 

family. He "had been talking long and earnestly, 
till now the conversation had ceased, and the 
company walked on in silence, — one tired of 
listening, another thinking over what had been 
said, another still gazing vacantly about on the 
scene that lay around them. 

The road ran on through the valley, with fields 
on either side so near that the edge of the way 
was the border of a farm. To the right a sower 
was planting his grain. He held the seeds in the 
gathered folds of his loose garment, and, as he 
marched from end to end of the field, he took it 
by the handful and flung it right and left. The 
ground was uneven, and the soil was not all 
equally good ; — here was a heap of stones, there 
was a thicket of bushes, only now and then a 
broad piece of deep, rich earth. But the sower 
flung his seed right and left, not heeding particu- 
larly where it fell, and the seed, as it flew about, 
sometimes disappeared in the openings between 
the stones, and sometimes lodged among the 
leaves and spires of the shrubbery. In this way 
great quantities were lost, for nothing useful could 
grow in those places. 



18 STORIES FROM THE LIPS OF THE TEACHER. 

* How carelessly that man casts his seed ! " said 
one of the disciples to his neighbor, — "a full half 
of it is wasted. See there, now, a whole handful 
has fallen right into the middle of that gravel-bed. 
There is small chance that that will grow." 

"Yes/' rejoined his companion. "And did you 
mark just now what a quantity that thorn-bush 
caught? Seeds must be cheap, I think." 

Just then the man came to the edge' of the field 
near which they were, flinging right and left all 
the time, and a handful came out into the middle 
of the road and lay there in full sight. They trod 
on it as they went by, and one of them, look- 
ing back from a distance, saw the birds eagerly 
picking it up, and making their breakfast on what 
should have been bread for men and women. 
"Does the man expect to grow corn on the high 
road?" said James. 

Jesus overheard this little chat about the sower, 
and presently turning round, he said, "I have a 
story to tell you." 

In a moment they were wide awake, and he 
began. 

" Once there was a Sower, and he went out to 



THE SOWER. 19 

sow ; and as he sowed, some seed fell by the way- 
side, and the fowls came and devoured it up. 
Some fell among thorns, and the strong thorns, 
growing fast, would not leave them room to grow, 
but choked them before they had time to root 
themselves in the soil. Some fell on stony 
ground, where the soil was thin. These sent their 
roots down at once, but very soon came to the 
rock and could go no farther; so they grew the 
other way, into the air, and were twice as tall 
above the soil as they were deep beneath it, — 
twice as tall as they should be for their root. 
The consequence was, that, when the hot sun 
came and blazed upon them, they had not 
moisture enough from the ground to sustain 
themselves, and soon dried up. The rest of the 
seed fell into good earth, took root, grew, and 
brought forth abundant fruit." 

When Jesus had told his little story, the disci- 
ples looked at one another, as if they would say, 
"Why, this is what we have just seen, — this is 
what we have been talking about. What does 
the Master mean by telling us this?" 

And Peter, who was always the first to speak, 



20 STORIES FROM THE LIPS OF THE TEACHER. 

and the readiest to ask questions, — a very good 
trait in old children as well as in young ones, — 
said : " Master, we saw that sower a few minutes 
ago." 

"Well," replied the Master, "and did you see 
what you saw ? I mean, did you understand it ? " 

" yes ! What was there hard to understand ? 
It was a common thing enough, — a farmer scat- 
tering his grain. Do you see anything wonderful 
in that?" 

"Why no, — and yet I think I saw more mar- 
vels in it than you did. For, as I looked at the 
man, I thought how much he is like me ! I go up 
and down the country,' from town to town, from 
house to house, scattering my seeds of thought as 
he scatters his seeds of grain. I scatter them eve- 
rywhere, by the handful, by the heartful, and, alas ! 
how many of them are lost, just as those were ! " 

"Then by the sower 'you mean yourself?" 

"Yes." 

"And what, then, is the field?" 

"The field is the world of men arid women, 
who have ears to hear, and minds to think, and 
hearts to feel" 



THE SOWER. 21 

" But who are the rocks ? And who are the 
thorns ? And who stand for the roadside ? And 
who can you mean by the birds ? " exclaimed, one 
after another, the now curious listeners. 

Jesus smiled, and said, "Is it possible that you 
do not see it yet? Surely, Peter, you have not 
forgotten what happened only a few days ago, 
when I was asking what people said about me. 
You were very quick with your word, and cried 
out, 'I think you are the Christ!' How eager 
you were ! how your eyes kindled ! how your 
cheeks shone ! But a few minutes afterward, on 
hearing me say that it would be necessary for me 
to suffer pain and insult, and perhaps death, you 
w r ere very much shocked and angered. You 
w T ould not hear of such a thing. I was obliged 
to rebuke you for your impatience and unbelief. 
Your faith in me had so little root that it dried 
up in an instant. Was not that something like 
the seed that was sown on the rock ? " 

Peter hung his head, and owned that it was. 
Then John felt a little prick in his conscience, and 
cried out, " You need not tell me who the thorn- 
bush is. That I am sure is I, with my hot temper, 



22 STORIES FROM THE LIPS OF THE TEACHER. 

which cannot bear reproof. I remember, to my 
mortification, the Samaritans on whose heads I 
wanted to call down fire because they would not 
hear what you had to say to them, and drove you 
out of their village." 

"And who is the roadside, James?" said the 
Master. 

James was silent, for he knew that his heart 
sometimes lacked sensibility, — that he was as 
much too cold as the others were too hot, and 
that very often the kind, fruitful words of his 
great Friend had lain on the surface of his mind, 
without being thought of or reflected on, or 
allowed to sink in, till the wind blew them away, 
or other wandering thoughts snapped them up, 
or the cares of business trod them down beneath 
their hurrying feet. So they were silent and 
absent-minded, and each disciple opened the door 
into the garden of his own heart, and went in, for 
the first time in many days, and began throwing 
out the stones, and pulling up the weeds, and root- 
ing out the thorn-bushes, so that the next seeds 
the Teacher planted should be sure to fall into 
good ground. 



THE SOWER. 23 

They were sad and discouraged, as children are 
when some little fault is found in them which 
they can easily correct. They had no heart to 
ask Jesus who were the good ground ; it seemed 
to them that there was no good ground in their 
gardens, and yet all the time the knowledge 
they had of themselves was like a sun, and the 
tears they shed were like softening showers, help- 
ing to prepare the ground to receive good words 
and change them into good actions. 

The great Sower of Truth has flung his seeds 
all over the world. There is no place where 
they have not fallen. Good men and women 
plant them in the minds of other men and 
women. Preachers take them into churches, and 
scatter them among the people who sit in the 
pews, hoping that some of them will take root 
in good ground. The Sunday-school teacher 
carefully gathers them up, and brings them into 
the Sunday-school to scatter among the children. 
Sunday after Sunday he comes with his mind 
full of the best thoughts he can find. He collects 
around him as many little people as he can, and 
liberally gives them the best he has, — the seed 



24 STORIES FROM THE LIPS OF THE TEACHER. 

that comes to the best harvest. But he feels that 
a great deal of his labor is thrown away. Off in 
that corner of the room sits a little fellow who 
will not be interested in what he says. He listens 
stupidly, as if he was half asleep ; no impression 
is made on his heart. He goes away, and in a 
few minutes it is all gone, — something he is 
interested in blows it all away. That little fellow 
is the wayside. 

On this bench sits a little girl, who listens with 
both her ears, and with her eyes as well. She 
does not lose sight of the teacher for a single 
minute, she does not mean to lose one word. 
" how beautiful that is ! " she says to herself; 
" how much I am interested in that ! How good 
our teacher is to tell us such lovely things! I 
shall go away at once and do just as he says. 
I mean to be a good girl from this moment ! No 
more disobedience, no more anger, no more impa- 
tience, no more idleness, no more trifling with 
dolls and picture-books." She • runs up to the 
teacher, and thanks him for his sweet lesson, — 
but the next day it is not so sweet. There are 
so many things to do; the lessons are so hard, 



THE< SOWER. 25 

the school-mistress is so cross, the children tease 
and vex one so; it is so much easier and pleas- 
anter to have a good time than to be a good 
girl, — that by Monday night her brave resolu- 
tions are dried up, and her bright feelings, having 
no root in her heart, are withered away. She 
was a piece of stony ground. 

Here again, in this class, two very pretty 
children are hiding their faces behind their books, 
and talking with all their might about bonnets 
and ribbons and gloves, and the charming party 
they had the week before, and how Miss So-and-so 
was dressed, and what they meant to wear at the 
next dance. Pretty little girls, with bright hair 
and smiling eyes. But they are thorn-bushes, 
and the teacher sighs as he looks at them, for 
he knows that no good seed can take root in 
such light minds. When vanity grows so fast, 
virtue can hardly put forth a leaf. 




THE TARES, 




HE scene is still by the beautiful shores 
of the Sea of Galilee, in the loveliest 
region of all the chosen land. The 
sweet waters, limpid and calm, not deep, lay em- 
bosomed in green hills high enough to be called 
mountains ; an opening in them on two sides lets 



THE TARES. 27 

in and out the river Jordan, whose swift waters 
leave their track across the lake, and cause the 
only motion that ever disturbs its surface, save 
when, through some gorge or deep ravine, the 
wind comes down, and beats into foam the rip- 
ples that play over the sparkling expanse. On 
the shores of this inland sea, rich cities, full of 
people, Tiberias, Bethsaida, Capernaum, now gone 
forever, stood, flourished, and decayed. 

The climate in its neighborhood was delicious ; 
it was the climate of the tropics. The earliest 
melons ripened there. The gentler slopes of the 
hill-sides. w r ere covered with wheat-fields, the steep- 
er declivities were clothed with soft verdure and 
luxuriant shrubbery ; in the more rocky portions 
flourished the vine, purple with grapes. On its 
waves floated the waterfowls ; on its banks 
warbled the birds. The fishermen dotted it over 
with their boats, and made it musical with the 
splashing of their nets. In the midst of bright 
gardens and villas it flashed like a gem. The 
planting season is over, and the summer weeks 
have brought the seed well along towards its 
maturity. On every side the eye rests on culti- 



28 STORIES FROM THE LIPS OF THE TEACHER. 

vated fields rich with the promise of the com- 
ing harvest. There is a lesson in every blade 
of grass, in every leaf on the trees, in every 
stone and weed, — a lesson of Providence which 
Jesus reads to himself and reads aloud to his 
friends. 

They have been talking, I suppose, as they 
were accustomed to do while they walked, about 
the heavenly kingdom, — when it should come, 
and how, and who should have a place in it, 
and whether such and such people, whom they 
thought of, should come in. Of course only the 
good people would come in ; but what, then, would 
be done with the bad people ? Why were the 
bad people permitted to live ? Why were they 
not taken out of the world at once ? Why did 
God allow any to be in the world to forget him, 
and deny him, and sin against him ? Why did 
he not remove all those who did not believe in 
his Christ, so that there might be none but faith- 
ful servants left, and the good time might come 
immediately? These were hard questions to an- 
swer, and Jesus did not reason with his friends 
about them. But he told them this little story 



THE TARES. 29 

of the Tares and the Wheat, thinking that they 
might find in it all the answer they needed. 

Once there was a farmer who had large fields* 
and took great pains in the cultivation of them, 
sparing no labor or money to obtain from his 
land; not only the largest, but the finest crops of 
w T heat. His ground was faithfully ploughed and 
carefully weeded; the rocks were dug out, the 
barren spots filled in with earth, the brambles 
and briers all pulled up by the roots. The seed 
he planted was the best, and it was put in at 
the best moment, in the best way. Having done 
all he could to insure a full and happy result, 
he waited for the weather, prayed for fair days, 
and expected a full harvest to reward him for 
his care and toil. 

The season was pretty well advanced, and all 
seemed to be going on prosperously, when one 
day his foreman, or chief laborer, came to him, 
and said, "Do you know,^ sir, that one of your 
fields of wheat, the richest and handsomest you 
have, is full of weeds? I did not see them at 
first, for when they were coming up they looked 
so much like the wheat that no one could tell 



30 STORIES FROM THE LIPS OF THE TEACHER. 

them apart. But now they are grown so tall 
that there can be no mistake about it. They 
are rank, and they look badly. How could they 
have come there ? The field was carefully tilled, 
for I attended to it myself." 

# It is no fault of yours or mine/' replied the 
farmer ; " the best care will not always keep them 
out. The seeds may be left in the soil; or the 
wind may blow them from some neighboring 
farm ; or it may be that somebody who bears me 
ill-will has been trying to injure me by scatter- 
ing the seed among my grain in the night, when 
no one was looking." 

" What shall I do about it ? " asked the foreman. 
" Would it not be best to go into. the field with the 
men and pluck them up before they grow larger 
and choke the wheat?" 

"By no means/' said the master; "do no such 
thing; the danger will be, in doing that, that 
you will destroy the wheat as well as the weeds ; 
for if you try to cut down the tares, you can 
hardly help cutting down the wholesome stalks 
which are growing close beside them ; and if you 
pull them up, you will loosen the ground, and 



THE TARES. 31 

disturb the roots of the thriving plant. No, no. 
We must let them remain as they are, — the 
whole must grow together. At the harvest-time 
the field will be reaped, and then it will be 
easy enough to separate the weeds, tie them up 
in bundles, and burn them." 

The summer weeks passed on. The sun poured 
its heat into the ground; the rain fell, the dew 
moistened the earth at night, the winds cooled 
the surface of the soil with their breath; the 
stalks grew tall, the leaves lay out broadly to 
the light and air, the fruit swelled in the tiny 
pods, and took on their golden color in the sun- 
shine, — while from week to week the sapless 
weeds became thinner and thinner, dryer and 
more colorless. The blossom of the grain changed 
into fruit, the blossom of the weeds changed into 
dead leaves. The wheat waved its tassels in the 
morning, and rejoiced in the noon. The weed 
hid its diminishing head from the eye of day, and 
seemed to shrink from observation. Then came 
the reapers with their sharp sickles. Weeds and 
grain fell together in long lines. The wide barn- 
doors opened to let in the harvest of grain ; and 



32 STORIES FROM THE LIPS OF THE TEACHER. 

the sky was blackened by the smoke that rose 
from the heaps of burning stubble. 

Jesus ended his story, and the disciples sat 
for a time silent, not knowing what to say. If 
they had wondered what the Master meant by 
the story of the Sower, they wondered still more 
at this story. The Master saw that they were 
puzzled, and said presently, * Is it possible that 
3^ou do not understand me? The field, ydu re- 
member, as I told you before, is the world of men 
and women. The Planter is the Son of Man. The 
wheat stands for those who love and obey him, — 
the good people who are his friends. The weeds 
are — " 

" 0, I know now," cried one of the company ; 
" the weeds are the bad people we have been talk- 
ing about, those who do not believe you nor 
love you." 

" Yes," replied the Teacher, u and the harvest is 
the end of the world, — the end of the growing- 
time, when the characters of men and women are 
ripe and full, and show themselves for just what 
they are ; when the good heart proves itself by the 
good life, and the bad heart proves itself by the 



THE TARES. 33 

bad life; when the young children have become 
men and women, and the men and women have 
reached the period when they cannot go back to 
change or improve themselves any more, but must 
either stand still or move forward in the way they 
have been going, — the wicked in the way of 
wickedness, to be more wicked still, and the good 
in the way of goodness, to be still better. Then 
the angels of God, who reap the fields of human 
life, will come with the sharp sickles of judgment. 
The fields of existence will be clear of men and 
women, and each will go where he belongs, — the 
wicked to their consuming sorrow, the good to 
their celestial happiness." 

Thus the disciples of Jesus were made to see 
that in this world the good and the bad must 
live, and stand side by side and work together; 
must share the same light, and be clouded by the 
same shadow; must catch the same dew-drops, 
and be fanned by the same breezes, and draw 
strength from the same fruitful, nourishing earth, 
till the moment comes for God to separate them 
and do with them as he pleases. 

And do you, my children, understand this? 



34 STORIES FROM THE LIPS OF THE TEACHER. 

I remember that, when I was a little boy, I used 
to wonder why so many bad boys and girls were 
born, and why, when they were born, they were 
not taken away, so that they might not tease and 
plague and spoil the good ones. It would be so 
much easier to be good if all were good! It 
would be so very easy always to do right, always 
to be kind, always to be dutiful and obedient, 
if nobody tempted one or provoked one to be oth- 
erwise ! I am very much afraid that I thought 
myself one of the good ones, and counted among 
the bad ones those that I did not like. If I had 
stopped a moment to consider, I should have 
reflected that there were some of my companions 
who disliked me, and thought me bad, and won- 
dered why I was allowed to live in the world. 
One little girl would think that another little girl 
was a weed, because she had not a pretty face, or 
a graceful figure, or a small foot ; because she was 
poor and wore patched clothes ; or because she was 
a better scholar, always knew her lessons, and 
kept the head of the class, and got all the prizes 
for good behavior. 

Some little boy might wish to get rid of his 



THE TARES. 35 

playmate because he was a greater favorite with 
the school than himself; because he ran faster, 
had more marbles, flew a finer kite, was more 
generous and kind, and winning in his ways. The 
idle might be very glad to have the industrious 
taken out of the way; the ugly would not be 
sorry if the handsome were removed. Each, per- 
haps, would look like a weed in the eyes of some ; 
and so the result at last would be, that the whole 
field must be ploughed over, and every plant 
pulled up. One would lay hands on this, an- 
other on that, till nothing remained to grow. 

Good and bad look very much alike when they 
are young, and it is impossible to say what they 
will be when they grow up. Some who seem to 
be very good when they are small may not be so 
good when they are larger, for passions are in 
them which we do not see, and these passions 
may take a start by and by, and spread so fast 
that the whole heart will be overgrown by them. 
And some who seem to be very bad when they 
are small may not be so bad when they are 
larger, for passions are in them, too, which we do 
not see, and these passions for truth and goodness 



36 STORIES FROM THE LIPS OF THE TEACHER. 

may take a start presently, and cover the whole 
field of life with beautiful flowers. What you 
take to be a weed may turn out, after all, to be 
wholesome wheat. Let me see; here is a great 

bundle of affections taken out of all vour little 

*/ 

hearts. Some of them, it seems to me, ought to 
be picked out and thrown away. 

Where shall we begin? Come, you mischiev- 
ous thing called Pride, there can be no doubt 
about you, — everybody agrees that you are a 
weed, and a most hurtful one; you shall go at 
any rate. But stop a moment. If I take you 
away, what will become of the little maiden's 
virtue? How will she keep herself clean and 
sweet? How shall she stand up against tempta- 
tion when her self-respect is gone, when she has 
lost her sense of shame and her feeling of honor ? 
No, no. Pride, you must stay for the present, 
till we see what is to come from you; perhaps 
you are a weed, but who can be sure of that? 
Some people have been saved by their pride, and 
certainly they were not saved by weeds. 

Let it stay, and we will take something else. 
Here it is, — Vanity ; love of dress and show and 



THE TARES. 37 

praise: here, you gay weed, your time is come, 
for you will take all the little maid's thoughts 
from serious things, and fix them on herself and 
her personal appearance, till she is as silly as a 
peacock ; she will be a great deal better off with- 
out you. Will she, though? Are we quite sure 
of that? Will it be a good thing for her not 
to care how she looks, not to care what im- 
pression she makes on people, not to care what 
her companions think of her ? Will it be well 
for her to be indifferent whether she pleases or 
not? What then is to prevent her from being 
sluttish and slovenly ? Suppose she falls into un- 
tidy habits, may not this tiny little plant be ^n 
herb of grace to her ? Certainly it may : it may 
ruin her, but then it may rescue her ; it may 
lead her into extravagance and vice, but then 
it may keep her out of dirty places and dirty 
company. Yes ; Vanity shall stay, but it shall 
be carefully watched. 

What weed shall we take next? I see one, 
a tall strong one, — Ambition ; the love of being 
first, the passion for power and fame and dis- 
tinction, the desire to have one's own person 



38 STORIES FROM THE LIPS OF THE TEACHER. 

and name eminent above all others. 0, what a 
bad thing that is! What multitudes of people 
it has destroyed ! Some of the noblest and most 
beautiful in the world have fallen victims to it. 
Out with it at once; it shall not stay in this 
dear child's heart another minute. Nay, not so 
quick, good friend, says the heart's master. For 
there was once a little boy who had none of 
this vice, as you call it, no desire to excel,' no 
wish to be first at work or play; he would as 
lief be at the bottom of his class as at the top ; 
he had no choice between being a wise man 
and being a dunce, and a dunce he became. As 
he grew up, he was always last, lagging behind 
all other people in whatever he undertook; he 
had not ambition enough to improve his con- 
dition in any way, and he fell into utter con- 
tempt. Now is it not possible that, by taking 
away this passion for fame, our little fellow here 
may come to an end like that ? Beware ; you 
may repent one day. It may be a precious 
virtue you are destroying. Very well; so be it. 
Ambition shall be left, too. Some of it must be 
good, how much of it the future must determine. 



THE TARES. 39 

But who has a word to say in favor of the 
weed I have in my hand now? Who can de- 
clare a quick temper to be anything but a vice ? 
See its eyes flash, see its hand clench, hear its 
fiery words. There is quarrel and battle and 
death in it. The world would be very peaceful 
if there were none of this in it. Yes; so it 
would, but it would be very tame and stupid. 
This is the stuff that high spirits are made of; 
this helps men to be chivalrous and heroic, and, 
when it is mellowed by age and experience, 
it carries people through great enterprises, and 
gives them a courage that overcomes every diffi- 
culty, and thinks no more of dying than of going 
to sleep. It is a dangerous thing to have, but 
it has its good side. God planted it ; let it grow, 
but watch it, lest it grow too fast, and put a 
check upon it, lest it run away with its possessor. 

But come ; we must pull out something : there 
are bad things in the world, there are weeds. 
Here, for instance, is one, a very ugly one, too. 
It is love of money, stinginess. Pah ! what a 
disgusting thing that is ! Everybody hates it ; no- 
body was ever the better, or anything but very 



40 STORIES FROM THE LIPS OF THE TEACHER. 

much the worse, for it. It will not let us give 
to the poor; it forbids our feeding the hungry, 
or clothing the naked, or sending good things 
to the sick and wounded in hospitals. When we 
think we will buy a gift for a friend, this comes 
in, and says, Do not do it, it will cost too much. 
When we purpose making our wives and chil- 
dren happy, it cries, You cannot afford it. If 
nothing else is a weed, this is, and if only one 
is to be pulled up, we shall be safe in pulling 
up this one. 

Shall we? Is it certain that we shall? Is 
there not such a thing as loving money and 
valuing money too little ? Is there not such a 
thing as wasting money on things we do not 
want, and things that do nobody any good and 
make nobody happy? And may not this ugly 
stinginess, as you call it, do good service now 
and then in making us careful, prudent, frugal? 
Well, well, perhaps it may. It may be good for 
something after all. The chances are that it is 
a weed, and will turn out to be one ; still there 
is a chance that it is not, and for the sake of 
that one chance we will let it grow with the 
rest. 



THE TARES. 41 

So you see, my dear children, in this whole 
heart full of growing plants I do not find one 
which I can venture to pull out and throw away. 
You must think charitably and tenderly of each 
other as long as you can. Since God only knows 
what is in you, and he lets good and bad grow 
together, you, who do not know, must not judge 
harshly nor impatiently. 

Judas thought he loved the poor, and all the 
money he got he put into a bag that he carried 
about with him, to give to the poor. He praised 
himself, and others praised him, for doing so : it 
looked kind and pitiful. But after a time Judas 
loved the money more than he loved the poor. 
Then he thought more of putting money into his 
bag than of taking it out. By and by he never 
took it out, but put in all he could come by. 
This led to his coming by it in bad ways, until at 
last he actually sold his best friend for thirty 
pieces of silver. In this case, what looked like a 
stalk of wheat proved to be a weed of enormous 
size. 

John came to his Master one day, and asked 
a favor. " What is it," said his Master, " that you 



42 STORIES FROM THE LIPS OF THE TEACHER. 

desire?" "My prayer is/' said the young man, 
"that when you come in your power and glory, 
with' your officers and guards and armies, to set 
up your throne on the ruins of the world's em- 
pires, you will let me sit at your right hand in 
the seat of honor." 

It was a very vain and selfish request, was it 
not? They who heard the young man make it 
were angry with him for his bold pride. ' But 
when the youth afterwards saw his Master mount 
a cross, instead of a throne, and die like a crimi- 
nal, instead of reigning like a king, — when he 
saw that the place at his right hand was a place 
of agony and shame, — still he desired it : the 
same love for his friend which made him eager 
to share his glory, made him eager to share his 
sorrow ; the same ambition which led him to as- 
pire to be his Lord's chief officer, led him to 
aspire to be his Lord's chief servant and martyr; 
the same passion for distinction which moved 
him to become great by the side of Jesus, moved 
him to become good like Jesus. In this case, 
what looked like a weed of enormous size and 
poisonous nature proved to be a stalk of most 
precious wheat. 



THE TARES. 43 

It is not for us to say, my children. We must 
wait. The good and the evil will show them- 
selves at last in their true shape, just as they 
are, and will come to their own appointed end 
in the great day of account. Until that day 
comes, they must live and grow together. It is 
better that they should, since God wills it so, 
who wishes what is best for all, for evil and for 
good alike. It is better for the evil, because if 
God were to take away the good, and leave the 
evil alone by themselves, they would grow worse 
and worse, until they became wholly wicked, and 
perished miserably by their sin. And it is better 
for the good, because, if God were to take away 
the evil, and leave the good alone by themselves, 
they would have no use for their goodness, — there 
would be nothing to exercise it on, nothing to 
do with it ; and so, instead of increasing, it might 
diminish, and after a while disappear altogether. 
God, perhaps, allows bad men and women to 
live, in order that good men and women may 
make them better, and may make themselves 
better at the same time. 

If there were no hard people to soften, no weak 



44 STORIES FROM THE LIPS OE THE TEACHER. 

ones to strengthen, no cruel ones to overcome 
with kindness, and no fierce ones to tame by gen- 
tleness, — if there were no wanderers to bring home, 
no fallen to lift up, no vile to pity, and no guilty 
to forgive, — what would become of our virtue? 
If you never task your powers, you lose them ; if 
you never turn your knowledge to account, it van- 
ishes away; and if you do nothing with your 
justice and truth and love, these too perish, and 
are gone forever. Our duty is to watch and pray 
and work. What is growing in our hearts may 
be weeds, and may be grain. What we take for 
grain may be weeds, and what we take for weeds 
may be grain. Time only will show ; but as soon 
as time does show the tall weeds coming up and 
choking the grain, we must see them, as the quick- 
eyed farmer saw them in his field, and must be as 
sure as he was that the fire would burn them at 
last. We will be wheat-sheaves if we can be, and 
we will have nothing but wheat-sheaves in the 
fields of our hearts. 

When Jesus ceased speaking to his friends, the 
shades of evening were falling. The disciples 
went home to their sleep, half expecting to be 



THE TARES. 45 

wakened in the morning by the voices • of the 
mighty angels, coming to reap the fields of the 
world with their flaming swords. The dreadful 
thought filled their dreams with mingled hope 
and terror. But the night passed tranquilly as 
usual, the purple dawn broke over the hill-tops 
with its calm ocean of light. The gates of the 
morning swung open as graciously as ever, and 
the Lord of the harvest was pleased to grant 
another day in which his children might grow 
in beauty, and in love to God and man. 




THE MUSTARD-SEED 




HE next day was hot, with the terri- 
ble heat of the Eastern land. The 
sun in a cloudless sky blazed down on 
the white road, and long before noon Jesus 
and his friends were glad to seek such shelter 
as they could find. They gathered together with- 



THE MUSTARD-SEED. 



47 



in the little patch of shade made by the leaves 
of a small tree, and looked down on the gleam- 
ing lake, whose surface was dotted here and there 
by a fishing-boat. The hour was quiet, and sug- 
gested quiet thoughts. 

"How wonderful it is/' said one, at last break- 
ing the silence, "that this tree which covers us 
all so pleasantly should have grown up from so 
small a seed ! Think of it, the seed was so small, 
that, when men wish to say a thing is very 
small indeed, they say it is small as a mustard- 
seed ; but now the wind makes pleasant music 
in its leaves, and the birds sing and make their 
nests in its branches, and the ground all about 
it is guarded from the rays of the midsummer 
sun, and here we are sitting at its foot, — sit- 
ting under a mustard-seed, — four men under a 
mustard-seed ! " 

Jesus had been sitting wrapt in thought. But 
the little speech of his friend seemed to rouse 
him! He lifted his eyes and said, "Yes, it is 
very wonderful, and just so it is with the king- 
dom of heaven I have so often spoken about. 
That too is a tree from a mustard-seed. That 



48 STORIES FROM THE LIPS OF THE TEACHER. 

is like a grain of mustard-seed planted in the 
ground. Into the heart of a poor carpenter's 
son it pleased God to plant one of his own 
great thoughts. The soil of the youth's heart 
was rich, and quick the seed took root there and 
grew. The thought spread more and more, till 
it filled the young man's whole mind and drank 
up all his affections. He watched it and culti- 
vated it ; he watered it with his tears ; he lfet the 
sun of God's goodness fall on it; he gave it 
room to grow, and let it by degrees absorb all 
his best feelings and desires and hopes ; he lived 
only that that seed might increase ; all his care 
was to keep it from harm; day and night he 
prayed that no bough might be broken, that 
no leaf of it might wither. 

" After some years the thought so possessed him 
that he was it, he himself was a living thought, he 
himself was a seed planted in the world. Soon 
this seed begins to grow in the world. Now it 
puts out a twig, then a slender branch ; friend 
after friend comes to him, is attached to him, stays 
with him, makes a part of him, lives on his life. 
He is now a tree, and has twelve branches, which 



THE MUSTARD-SEED. 49 

he calls by name. One is Peter, another is John, 
a third is James ; others are called Matthew, &c. 
The tree is not very large as yet, nor does it cast 
a broad shadow. Occasionally a way-worn travel- 
ler finds rest beneath it ; a poor fainting woman 
blesses God for its shelter ; the little children love 
to sport about it ; it is cheering to the poor and 
friendless. But it shall grow larger; its branches 
shall multiply, and extend, and thicken. Great 
people, strong people, wise people, shall attach 
themselves to this small body. The wealth of the 
rich shall belong to it; it shall absorb the great 
powers of the earth: in time its branches shall 
cover the whole land from the mountains to the 
sea, and all the twelve tribes of Israel shall repose 
under its shade. The wind in its top shall be the 
breath of the Holy Spirit : for the singing of birds 
there shall be mighty organ music and the psalms 
of ten thousand worshipping souls : the fragrance 
of its blossom shall rise like incense to heaven, 
and its precious fruits of faith, hope, and love shall 
refresh and feed the nations. The seeds shall 
multiply and be scattered abroad far and wide. 
Every man and woman shall be a seed ; they shall 
4 



50 STORIES FROM THE LIPS OF THE TEACHER. 

be carried by the wind in ships to the distant 
lands beyond the setting sun ; they shall go in the 
long' caravans across the desert. Wherever they 
go they shall dwell, and wherever they dwell they 
shall root themselves and grow. Churches shall 
spring up, institutions shall be reared, influence 
shall spread. Every word shall be a seed; every 
action shall be a seed ; every thought and feeling 
shall be a seed ; till, in the end, the germ which 
was laid in the heart of the young carpenter of 
Nazareth shall throw its tent over mankind like 
the all-covering heavens, and give cool rest to 
the fainting travellers in their life journey." 

" But, Master," said one of the company, as the 
voice of Jesus was hushed, " shall not the kingdom 
you have so often spoken of come soon ? Shall 
it not come suddenly? Shall it not come with 
a loud clangor of trumpets and a fierce onset of 
arms ? We have been expecting day by day that 
you would raise your banner and summon all the 
faithful to your side, and with terrible outburst of 
power sweep the princes of men from the face of 
the earth, utterly destroying their kingdoms by 
the armies of the Lord. Are you not the Mes- 



THE MUSTARD-SEED. 51 

siah ? And is not the Messiah's rule nigh at 
hand ? " 

" yes," replies the Master ; CQ the kingdom is 
even now among you. Where two or three 
faithful souls are, there is the kingdom; where 
I am, there is the kingdom. But see, yonder, that 
field of corn, — it takes a summer to ripen it. 
The farmer opens the ground, tills it, manures it, 
and puts in the seed-corn ; he watches it night 
and day ; all the elements work upon it ; the sun 
gives its heat, the clouds give it their moisture. 
There are wet days and dry days, all alike good ; 
heaven and earth do their best to bring the grain 
to its perfection ; but how slowly the process is 
carried on. First there appears a little green 
shoot above the surface of the ground; then a 
tender stem is lifted up : the stem increases in 
height and thickness; the broad leaves unfold 
themselves one by one, making a covering for 
the ear. On the ear the kernels swell with juice ; 
a few weeks yet mature them ; and at length 
the rich corn is ready to be gathered. 

"As it is with the corn, so shall it be with 
the kingdom of heaven. It comes in by degrees, 



52 STORIES FROM THE LIPS OF THE TEACHER. 

and by steps so gradual that you cannot trace 
them. It is first a right or kind feeling, then 
a good thought, then a noble action. The first 
feeling kindles other feelings, till the heart is all 
ablaze ; the thought awakens other thoughts, till 
the mind is too full to hold; the action sets 
other actions in motion, till they make life one 
great noble action. The feelings of many make 
the power of heart and conscience by which the 
evils and sins of the world are driven away; 
the thoughts of many make the great beliefs, 
the mighty public opinion, by which old igno- 
rances and errors are blown to the winds; the 
actions of many make the customs and institu- 
tions under which nations live. But it takes a 
great while to change a feeling into a thought, 
a thought into a belief, a belief into a purpose, 
and a purpose into a character. 

"If it takes a summer to make a good fig, 
or grape, or olive, how many summers will it 
take to make a good man or woman brave, and 
just, and true, and patient, and loving ? A great 
many, surely. And if it takes so many to make 
one good man or woman, how many will be 
needed to make a city full? 



THE MUSTARD-SEED. 53 

"No, my children, you will not be wise to 
look for the kingdom to-morrow or next day, 
even in your own little heart. You must wait 
for it, and pray for it, and work for it. I shall 
go away, and you will go away, and still it will 
be far off from almost all mankind. But it will 
come ; there is time enough." 

At these words the Disciples looked sad, for 
>they had been watching for the kingdom as 
men watch for the coming of the dawn, and 
their hope was disappointed. 

Jesus saw their sadness, and said : a You are in 
the kingdom now, because you try to be good, 
and the kingdom is in you, because good hearts 
are in you. Take the words I speak to you into 
your minds ; keep your hearts clean, that they 
may root themselves and grow there ; love what 
is lovely, honor what is honorable, do your duty 
as well as you can, — that will be enough for you, 
God will do the rest. He will send the sunshine 
and the rain, and the gracious seasons; he will 
conduct the process of growth; he will provide 
for the great future. Look to it that the king- 
dom is begun in your heart; he will see that 



54 STORIES FROM THE LIPS OF THE TEACHER. 

it is finished in the world. The more faithfully 
you cultivate your own garden, the quicker the 
whole earth will become a garden of the Lord." 
While they talked, the sun had sped fast to- 
wards the west, the shadows lengthened, and in 
the long Eastern twilight they resumed their 
journey. 




THE SUPPER, 




NE of the rich men of Jerusalem gave 
a grand dinner-party, and Jesus, who 
was now a famous person, whom the 
people were all wondering at and talking about, 
received an invitation to it. He accepted it, and 
went at the hour to the Pharisee's house with 
the other guests. 



56 STORIES FROM THE LIPS OF THE TEACHER. 

It was the Sabbath day, — a strange day, some 
will think, for a dinner party, especially in Jeru- 
salem. For, according to the ancient law, it was 
a crime to work, or to make others work, on the 
day of rest. All must give themselves up to 
repose : the horses must stand still in the stable ; 
no long walks were allowed ; the camels must 
lie down in the stall; the servants must be 
released from domestic duties; no fire could be 
kindled; no wood could be gathered; no food 
could be cooked. The good people who did what 
Moses commanded prepared their dinner the day 
before, just as our New-England forefathers did. 
It was even written in the law-books, that if a 
man picked up a few sticks on the holy day, he 
should be stoned to death. 

So great was this regard for the Sabbath day, that 
the Jews would not fight on the Sabbath, so that, as 
the historian tells us, when the city of Jerusalem 
was besieged by the Romans, the enemy, hearing 
that the Jews would not defend themselves on the 
day of rest, took advantage of that scruple and 
made the fierce assault by which the city was 
captured. There is a story that a Jewish pilot in 



THE SUPPER. 57 

a storm refused to steer the vessel, and suffered 
shipwreck, because it was the Sabbath. It is not 
likely, however, that many Jewish sailors would 
choose to drown a hundred or so of their fellow- 
men, and themselves besides, rather than move a 
rudder on the Sabbath day; nor were all the 
soldiers in Jerusalem so pious that they would 
let their enemies come in and pillage their beau- 
tiful city, and destroy their rich temple, because 
fighting was work, and it was not lawful to work 
on the day of rest. 

These old laws about eating and drinking, and 
working and travelling, were still in force among 
the Jews when Jesus was alive, but more, it is 
likely, with the common people than with the 
rich and fashionable. Besides, the rich usually do 
very much as they please. If a poor man worked 
on Sunday, that was another thing ; that was 
against the law ; he must be punished ; but who 
would venture to punish the rich? This very 
man who sent the invitation to Jesus thought it 
a dreadful thing, no doubt, when Jesus some time 
after this cured people of their diseases on the 
Sabbath day, or went into a corn-field and pulled 



58 STORIES FROM THE LIPS OF THE TEACHER. 

some corn and ate it, to satisfy his hunger. That 
was breaking the law; that showed that he had 
no piety, and was not a good man. These stern 
old commandments were very convenient when 
the great wished to get rid of some one whom 
they did not like. 

But we must come back to the dinner. It was 
very elegant and costly. The tables were long ; 
the couches were wide and soft. The guests 
came in their best clothes, and were met at the 
door by servants, who washed their feet with 
perfumed water, presented them with bouquets 
of flowers, or placed garlands on their heads, 
then ushered them into the banqueting-room. 

Heavy curtains of rich stuffs shaded the open- 
ing from the rays of the sun, and maidens with 
long feathery fans cooled the air, and kept away 
everything which could annoy the feasters. At 
the end of the room a band of musicians played 
soothing melodies of the East, and burning sandal- 
wood and myrrh filled the atmosphere with heavy, 
luxurious odors. 

As the guests seated themselves at the table, 
the host went up and down the room, taking care 



THE SUPPER. 59 

that each had the seat allotted to him, and that 
the due order of rank and distinction was pre- 
served. One man, who was conceited and full of 
a sense of his own importance, took a higher 
place than belonged to him; he had to move 
lower down, and make room for one of more 
eminence. Another, as modest as his neighbor 
was vain, was asked to come up to a more 
honorable place, near the head of the table, where 
the master of the feast himself presided. One 
man had not on fashionable garments, and was 
not allowed to sit down at all. At length all were 
seated, and the servants brought in the dishes. 
The guests chatted together very much as people 
at dinner do in our days; talked about the fish 
and the mutton, praised the wine, and compli- 
mented the host on his hospitality. 

But Jesus said to some of his friends who sat 
near him, "Why do men give such magnificent 
dinners to those who do not need them ? Every 
one here is rich, lives well, can afford to return 
the invitation, and give such a dinner as this to 
as many as there are here. None of them ever 
knew what it was to be hungry. It seems to 



60 STORIES FROM THE LIPS OF THE TEACHER. 

me, if I gave a dinner, I would give it to the 
starving, not to the full ; to those who had none, 
not to those who could give me as rich as I gave 
them. I would give it to the poor. How much 
better that would be than this ! What multitudes 
there are in Jerusalem who could be made con- 
tented a whole day, and grateful for several days, 
by a small pQrtion of all that is here just tasted 
and thrown away by these people, who eat not 
because they want food, but because they must 
compliment their host, and who eat no more than 
they are obliged to by courtesy, and as a matter 
of politeness. 

" Once upon a time a great friend of mine made 
a dinner party, and asked a great many people, — 
many hundreds more than there are here. All his 
rich neighbors and acquaintances far and wide had 
invitations. The day came; the weather was 
fine ; the fatted calf and sheep were killed and 
cooked ; the tables were covered with choice 
dishes ; the host dressed himself to be ready for 
his company, but the company did not come, only 
the servants came at the last minute to bring 
their masters' excuses. One said, 'I have just 



THE SUPPER. 61 

been married, and am about starting on my wed- 
ding journey to the mountains ; of course I can- 
not come.' Another said, <I am, unfortunately, 
engaged this afternoon to go out of town and look 
at a piece of land which is offered for sale, and 
which I strongly think of buying. I am very 
sorry ; but I shall lose my bargain if I eat your 
dinner. Excuse me, then, from eating your din- 
ner.' A third sent word that he had been stock- 
ing one of his farms with some fine cattle, — 
choice breeds from the Northern country, — and 
he must seize the opportunity of a pleasant day 
to go out and look* at them. 

" So it went on. This one had a bad cold ; that 
one a severe headache ; the other was indisposed ; 
till, out of the whole company invited, scarcely 
half a dozen made their appearance. It was very 
provoking : there was the feast, and nobody to eat 
it. On this, the master of the house bethought 
him of his poor relations, whom he had not shown 
civility to for a great while, and bade his servants 
go out at once with cards of invitation to them. 
They came promptly enough, with the exception 
of one or two, who said they were not going to 



62 STORIES FROM THE LIPS OF THE TEACHER. 

take up with second-hand invitations; if their 
names were not on the first list, they should not 
be on the second. 

" But the seats were not full yet, for the tables 
were exceedingly large. So some common ac- 
quaintance were called in. When these did not 
occupy all the room, the master exclaims : ' Well ; 
let us have the poor ; let us have the hungry and 
the miserable; let us give a good dinner to the 
people who live at the Five Points.' 

"When it came to that, the seats were soon 
filled up. The guests came in crowds, with great 
hungry eyes, and mouths that .had not tasted good 
meat for many a day. They came in all sorts 
of clothes, but with one sort of appetite. It was 
as much as the servants could do to help them. 
Some had to sit on the grass in the garden, and 
eat their dinner there. But all had enough, and 
went home satisfied. And as for the host, he said 
he enjoyed it a great deal more than he would 
have enjoyed his fine friends ; and there was this 
good thing about it, he should not be expected to 
eat ever so many dinners in return. To have 
made so many poor men and women happy was 



THE SUPPER. 63 

far better, he said, than to have made a few rich 
people merry for an hour." 

Then said one of the company, " Pray be good 
enough to tell us who was this friend of yours ? 
He must have had an immense house, and a heart 
bigger than his house, and a purse as large as his 
heart. Who was he ? " 

And Jesus made reply : " It was the Lord, the 
Great Giver. Every day he opens the wide 
windows of the dawn, and lets the air from the 
heavens blow through the spacious chambers of 
the earth : he pushes back the golden gates, and 
bids his messenger, the light, go in, and welcome 
all his creatures to the banqueting-hall, whose 
floor, carpeted with green, is as broad as the sur- 
face of the globe ; whose azure ceiling is as high 
as the dome of the all-bovering skies. He spreads 
his large table east, west, north, and south; 
heaps upon it the produce of the ground, the 
fruits of the trees, the treasures of the deep sea, 
the costly essences, the luscious fig, pomegranate, 
cherry, grape, the juices of the vineyard, the 
crystal liquid of the spring; and then says to 
his children, ' Come and eat.' The welcome is 



64 STORIES FROM THE LIPS OF THE TEACHER. 

not given to any particular nation or class of 
men; he does not invite his angels and arch- 
angels alone ; he does not call his saints and 
prophets ; he does not say ' Come ' to the Jew, 
and not also to the Greek, and Koman, and Scy- 
thian, and Egyptian, and Irishman, and African; 
he does not provide a place for the high-priest 
of the temple, or the rich Pharisee, or the wise 
teacher, and provide no place for the poor widow, 
the simple tradesman, the foolish shepherd, and 
the honest farmer ; he does not allow the genteel 
and well-dressed and high-born to fill the best 
seats; he sends his servants into the villages and 
lanes, into the vile places of the city, and they 
say, ' Come,' not to those who are full, but those 
who are empty. If the savage holds out his cup, 
it is filled ; if the sinner says, ' Give me my daily 
bread,' and brings out his plate to receive it, the 
pitiful elements troop along, and make his dish 
heavy. The only question asked is, 'Are you 
hungry ? ' and this question is asked of everybody, 
for everybody has a mouth to fill, and a life to be 
sustained. 

" And so w T hen his large mansion is opened, — 



THE SUPPER. 65 

his kingly mansion, where the souls of men feast 
on his truth, — he bids his servant go out and find 
all whose hearts are hungry for rest, and starving 
for want of love. And the servant goes out : he 
goes to the wise and great and powerful ; but he 
does not stop at them ; he passes on to the weak 
and the little. He goes among the Bohemians ; he 
visits the cities of the Pagans ; he stops the Roman 
soldier, and the Greek merchant, and the Arab 
trader of the desert; he speeds away to the 
mountain solitudes in quest of the savage and the 
outlaw; he stops by the pool of Bethesda, and 
gives the message to the wretched cripples, who 
lie about on the stone pavement waiting their 
turn to dip into the healing water ; he meets the 
slave in the field, w r ith his heavy wooden clog 
on his feet, and asks him if he would not like to 
come to the great house ; if his master is near, he 
invites him too. 

"Fishermen, farmers, shoemakers, — all receive 
the message. The messenger does not say, ' Who 
are you ? What is your name ? Where do you 
live ? How much can you pay for your dinner ? 
Have you a fine suit of clothes ? ■ He only says, 






66 STORIES FROM THE LIPS OF THE TEACHER. 

' Have you a sorrow ? Have you a trouble ? Have 
you a need ? ' " 

While Jesus was talking earnestly thus to those 
about him, others near by heard his voice and 
listened. Presently the conversation among the 
more distant guests flagged and died away, and 
the whole table was interested in the eloquent 
words of the Teacher. Some bent forward that 
they might not lose a sentence that fell from his 
lips ; some left their seats, and came to stand close 
by him, that they might hear the better. 

As he finished relating his parable, and unfold- 
ing the meaning of it, they turned and went 
away ; in little knots talking over what they had 
heard, with various comment, and much difference 
of opinion. 

A few felt their hearts fill with joy ; but the 
master of the house shook his head, and said to 
his rich neighbors, " That is dangerous doctrine ; 
it will not be safe for us to hear it, or for the 
people. We must have no more to. do with this 
man." 

And that was the last time that Jesus was 
invited to a dinner-party among the fashionable 
people of Jerusalem. 




THE LOST SHEEP. 




Jesus went about freely in all places, 
and among all kinds of people, and wher- 
ever he went he said, a I am come to ask 
you to come with me to God's heaven ; will you 
come ? " 

If he saw a mother crying over her dead boy, 



68 STORIES FROM THE LIPS OF THE TEACHER. 

or a beggar sitting by the gate of the town, or a 
blind man picking his way along the street, or a 
tired girl sitting by the side of a well, with her 
pitcher of water, or an old man bowed and 
stricken with years of grief, he saluted, and said, 
" Heaven's door is open ; will you go in ? " 

Sometimes he encountered young men, gay and 
handsome, riding their superb horses in the public 
square, or walking to attract the public gaze, and 
sometimes he encountered young women, pale and 
sick-looking, hurrying home under cover of the 
night ; but he never flattered the young man, nor 
scorned the young woman. He asked them both 
alike to come with him to his heaven, telling them 
what they must do in order to be welcomed 
there. 

If he found a poor creature in the street who 
looked lonely and desolate, as if all her friends 
were gone, and there was no more comfort in life, 
he would take her by the arm, and look into her 
face, and say, in his deep, tender tones, " My poor 
child, what is the matter ? Have you no pro- 
tector, no home, no parents, none to help you 
or love you ? Then let me help and love you ; 



THE LOST SHEEP. 69 

let me be brother and sister to you." The poor 
creature would look up into the kind face, won- 
dering who it could be that spoke so affectionately 
to the lost one, and seemed to care for a poor 
outcast for whom the world cared nothing : she 
would feel inclined, perhaps, to return a bitter, 
mocking answer, or to run away, as she had been 
used to run away from the policemen, who seized 
her as a vagabond, and dragged her off to prison ; 
but no second glance at the merciful eyes was 
needed to make her feel at rest with her new 
friend. She would sit at his feet and hear him 
talk; she would walk with him, holding by his 
hand; she would find her hope and courage again; 
she would give up her feeling of impatience and 
despair; she would drive away her temptation to 
vice and crime, and try harder than ever to lead 
the new life he told her of. 

The friends of Jesus thought he gave too much 
time and care to these outcast people, who were 
of no account in society, and often remonstrated 
with him about it. a Why," they asked, " do you 
not rather try and make friends of the rich, who 
could build you a splendid church, and pay you a 



70 STORIES FROM THE LIPS OF THE TEACHER. 

large sum of money for your teaching ? or of 
the wise, who could understand your beautiful 
lessons, and take you into their company ? or 
of the powerful, who could get for you the 
favor and aid of the great who are in au- 
thority ? or of the priests, who would make 
brave disciples ? " 

u What a splendid thing/' they urged, " it would 
be to have such as these as companions and 
pupils. Your band would soon be strong enough 
for anything ; you could buy up all the votes of 
Jerusalem ; you could bribe the Emperor himself; 
you could raise an army, if you chose ; you could 
have gentlemen, nobles, princes, in your escort ; 
you could make yourself a victorious leader, a 
general, a king ; you could overthrow the Eoman 
governor; you could make war against the Em- 
peror of the world ; you could take possession of 
Jerusalem, the holy city, and restore its ancient 
glory as the city of David, and call all the people 
together there, once more to worship in the great 
temple; you could raise your nation to such 
power as it has never seen, and make yourself 
famous to the end of the earth. Then if you 



THE LOST SHEEP. 71 

wanted to feed the hungry, and clothe the naked, 
and heal the sick, and comfort the prisoners, how 
easily you might do it ! You could spread broad 
tables every day in the public square ; you could 
build great hospitals; you could hire nurses and 
physicians, and ministers of all sorts, by thousands, 
and could make happy a thousand men and 
women where now you make happy one." 

Jesus was very sad when he heard his friends 
talk in this way, for he knew that they talked so 
because they were proud and ambitious; they 
wanted him to be great in order that they might 
be great. They did not care about the poor ; they 
did not like the weak and sick ; they even hated 
those who were not good Jews as they were, and 
thought that Jesus had no business to ask these 
vulgar people to come into his heaven, — that 
they had no right to be there at all. 

All this made Jesus sad. Besides, he was not a 
soldier ; he did not care for power as a ruler ; he was 
indifferent to fame ; he hated war and bloodshed ; 
he did *not believe his work could be done by the 
sword ; he did not believe that rich, and learned, 
and grand people could do his work for him in 



72 STORIES FROM THE LIPS OF 'THE TEACHER. 

any way, — certainly they could not do it in his 
way, — and he felt sure that he should waste his 
time' and labor on people who were perfectly 
well satisfied with what they had, and would 
think they did him a great deal of honor in giv- 
ing him their friendship. 

All this he said again and again, and went on as 
he had done, ministering to the poor, and keeping 
company with the lowly. 

But one day they had been pressing him hard 
to change his course of conduct. Some rich men 
had been offended because he ate his dinner with 
a poor fellow who earned a living by collecting 
taxes to support a government they did not like ; 
a person whom no respectable citizen would be 
seen in company with, or would speak to, the 
very sight of whom made them so angry that 
they could not help swearing at him. 

This insolent rascal, as they called him, had 
saluted Jesus, and asked him some question about 
the way to be happy, — as if such as he could ever 
expect to be happy ; and Jesus not only made a 
civil reply to his inquiry, but asked him to go 
home with him, and now has been dining at his 
table. 



THE LOST SHEEP. 73 

" If this is the way/' said these high gentlefolks, 
''your Great Teacher, your Messiah, as you call 
tim, behaves, he is no teacher or Messiah of ours. 
We think he is an impostor, and we shall tell the 
governor to keep an eye on him." 

Jesus heard what they had to say, and, w T hen 
they had finished, told them this little story of the 
Lost Sheep. 

Once there was a shepherd who had a flock of a 
hundred sheep. They were all his care ; to watch 
them, to see that they did not stray away, or fall 
into pits, or hurt themselves among the stones, to 
find fresh and green pasturage for them, to pro- 
tect them from robbers, to defend them against 
the wolves, was the sole duty of his life. They 
were like children to him ; he called them by 
pet names, — a White-fleece," u Fair-skin," u Firm- 
foot," u Quick-ear," * Sharp-nose," " Bob-tail," and so 
forth ; and so accustomed were they to the sound 
of their names, when he spoke to them, that they 
answered to his call, and followed their master 
long distances, simply hearing his voice : a stran- 
ger's voice they knew in a moment, and would 
either remain where they were, or run away, 



74 STORIES FROM THE LIPS OF THE TEACHER. 

when they heard it ; they were very -well-educated 
and well-bred sheep. 

In. the pleasant season their master led them 
about over the hills, pasturing them where the 
herbage was greenest, as fast as they had cropped 
one place bare taking them to another. In the 
glorious nights of the East, when the air was mild 
and the skies were bright, he used to lie out with 
them, under the stars, wrapped in his cloak of 
skins, his faithful dog standing sentinel over the 
flock; in the daytime he chose some spot from 
which he could overlook them all, and took pleas- 
ure in seeing them feed. When the winter came, 
and the nights were chilly and dark, he drove 
them all together into the strong, safe walls of 
th& sheepfold, which stood on the bare side of 
the hill, carefully locked them in, and left them, 
feeling quite sure that no harm could touch 
them there. 

, One night it so chanced that one of his flock 
was missing. He counted them over twice, and 
there were but ninety-nine. The missing one was 
not one of the finest or the fattest by any means. 
It was a puny thing, always ailing, and always 



THE LOST SHEEP. 75 

getting into trouble. It was more care than all 
the rest together, and it never would bring a good 
price in the market. Foolish creature ! If there 
was a wrong path to take, it would surely take it ; 
if there was a ditch to tumble into, it certainly 
would tumble in ; if there was any way of losing 
itself, the silly thing would inevitably find it; in 
fact, it was always losing itself, never finding 
itself. Often and often it was picked up in dan- 
gerous places, and brought back, with u torn fleece 
and eyes full of fear." One of its legs had been 
lamed by a fall into a well ; on one shoulder was a 
great scar left by a wolfs paw that it had narrowly 
escaped from ; and now it was gone again, no one 
knew whither. 

The night was coming on fast, the wind was 
blowing bleak across the hills; it was growing 
cold, and the great black clouds were rolling up 
the sky. What should the shepherd do? Leave 
the poor thing to its fate ? let it go, if it would go, 
to its destruction? stay and take care of the more 
valuable sheep, that would pay him for watching 
them with their fleeces? He did not hesitate. 
"The other sheep," he said, "can take care of 



76 STORIES FROM THE LIPS OF THE TEACHER. 

themselves ; they are strong and hearty, wise, too, 
and discreet ; they can do very well without me. 
I shall not be much afraid to leave them by them- 
selves all night on the open plain ; but that poor 
little, weak, absurd, nonsensical creature, what 
will become of it ? How lonely it must be ! how 
scared, how tired, how cold and hungry! Per- 
haps it has fallen over a precipice ; perhaps a wolf 
or jackal is making a supper of it this very' mo- 
ment; perhaps — a hundred perhapses — I must 
go and find it at all hazards." 

So he tightens his belt round his waist, seizes 
his staff, and sets forth on his journey. He goes 
he knows not whither. Nothing but instinct 
directs him, — the instinct of love, — and that 
leads him where he knows there is the most 
danger. He marches over the rough hill-side, 
across the wild pasture-land; he fords the deep, 
rushing stream ; he passes one spot which is ter- 
rible because of a murder that was done there, 
and another spot which is terrible as the lair of 
wolves. 

I cannot describe the adventures he met with. 
Let it be enough to say that, as he stumbled 



THE LOST SHEEP. 77 

along, he listened every moment for tlie well- 
known cry of his little deserter; listened and 
listened, but did not hear it till he was far away 
in a desert place, out of all reach of men. Then 
he heard it. It seemed faint, like the wail of a 
child in pain and distress. He followed it by the 
sound as well as he could, and at length, close by 
the verge of a precipice, he discovered his darling 
in a great bed of thorns. How he got there, it 
would be hard to tell; but there he was, faint 
and bleeding with his struggles to get out. One 
large spine was aimed at his throat, another 
pierced his breast, others tore his legs and sides. 
The shepherd, making tender exclamations and 
saying piteous words all the time, put his hand 
into the thicket, pushed aside the sharp twigs, and 
at last drew the poor creature out, half dead. A» 
little milk from his bottle restored him in a few 
minutes; then he took the melancholy creature 
on his shoulder, put him round his neck like a 
great fur collar, holding his legs in front, and 
trudged homeward. 

How happy he was ! Whistling and singing, he 
sprang along the path, now caressing his nestling 



^ 



78 STORIES FROM THE LIPS OF THE TEACHER. 

charge, now scolding it affectionately for running 
away, calling it simple and foolish, but all the 
time light of heart, and thinking no more of his 
long travel, his loss of time, his fatigue, or the 
peril of his other ninety-nine, than if nothing of 
the kind existed to trouble him ; not so much, 
indeed. It was a good deal better than if the 
silly thing had behaved itself, so it seemed to 
him, as a lost thing found is always more previous 
than a thing never lost. The unhappy creature 
who had given him so much anxiety and care, 
and who was worth so little as mutton or as wool, 
was worth to his heart more than twenty fat 
sheep that would have made the rich man's din- 
ner, or clothed the rich man's back. He would 
not exchange it for a dozen. When he reached 
home, he made it the softest bed of straw, clean 
and sweet, and nursed it like a baby. He gave 
the rest of the flock all they wanted, of course ; 
but this little unfortunate, who had no fat, no 
beauty, no discretion, no wool, — who had nothing 
but ignorance, and stupidity, and foolishness, and 
the power of getting into trouble, — received the 
best he had. 



THE LOST SHEEP. 79 

He told the story of the runaway to all his 
neighbors; and when they said to him, "You 
were a silly fellow to take so much pains for 
such a wretched imbecile as that," he replied, " I 
did it because he was an imbecile ; the more need 
of love, the more right to love ; the more love 
given, the more love felt: he would be a bad 
shepherd, and a worse man, who let the little ones 
perish, when the little ones were the only ones 
that wanted or asked for his help." 

Now, my dear children, this little story is told 
for you just as much as it was told for those 
people who heard it from the lips of the Teacher, 
who called himself the Good Shepherd. Suppose 
that this Good Shepherd were alive now. Among 
what sort of people do you think he would go ? 
Whom would he seek? Would he be found 
among the comfortable, and safe, and happy ? 
Would he be seen working for those who had 
ever so many friends to take care of them, and 
teach them, and see that they did not go wrong ? 
Would he spend his time with those who never 
suffered, who never cried, who never did what 
they ought not to do, nor left undone what they 



80 STORIES FROM THE LIPS OF THE TEACHER. 

ought to do? Would he take the good little 
children up in his arms and kiss them, because 
they -were good, and let the bad children, who 
might be made good, go where they would? 

I think not ; he would be with those who have 
the greatest need of him ; and who are they but 
the homeless, the orphaned, the poor, the sick, the 
unpitied, the untaught, the unloved ? You would 
see him in the out-of-the-way streets and lan y es of 
the city, where the drunken and the miserable 
live in garrets and cellars ; you would find him in 
the jails and alms-houses, among the newsboys, in 
the ragged-schools ; he would go to such places as 
the Five Points in New York, North Street in 
Boston, St. Giles's in London, in search of poor 
girls who had gone astray, and of thieves, who 
broke into houses at night, — not as the policeman 
goes, to seize and shut up in prison, but as the 
angels go, to teach, and persuade, and win back 
by love. 

He would spend days with the bad boys at 
Randall's and Thompson's Islands, and would be 
perfectly happy when he could bring one of them 
away, and put him in a good family, where he 
might grow up an honest man. 



THE LOST SHEEP. 81 

He would seek the murderer in his cell, and 
pray with him ; he would stop the ruffian in the 
street, and call him brother, and beg him to leave 
his wicked life. 

If he met some poor creature whom nobody 
seemed to love, who, because nobody loved her, 
was becoming wild and desperate and wicked, he 
would stop her; he would take her by the arm, 
and look into her face, and say, " Come with me : 
I love you ; let me be your brother." 

Always going after the lost sheep, because the 
lost sheep are the suffering and unhappy sheep, — 
the sheep who have no homes, who have nobody 
to feed them or be kind to them. And he goes 
after them to give them a home, to give them 
food and kindness. Why should he ? Because 
they deserve it? No, but because they need it. 
He goes after the lost because he wishes to save 
the lost. The Good Shepherd thinks that one 
soul is worth saving as much as another, and 
therefore he takes care of those who would not 
be saved but for him. 

Does it not seem to you that those who do 
wrong ought to be pitied because they do wrong ? 



82 STORIES FROM THE LIPS OF THE TEACHER. 

— ought to be pitied because they have not the 
happiness of doing right, because they are tor- 
mented by violent passions, and are wild with 
evil wishes ? They have no love, or peace, or joy 
in them ; the sun is not bright to them, the fair 
landscape is not pleasing, the morning is not 
glad; they do not love to look in the face of 
those that love them ; kind words make no im- 
pression on their hearts. how unhappy > they 
are ! And if they do not know how unhappy 
they are, if they do not know how many lovely 
things they lose, if they shut themselves into the 
outer darkness, then they are- most unhappy, and 
most to be pitied, and the Good Shepherd is more 
than ever anxious to bring them back to goodness. 

A wise Persian offered this prayer : a God, 
bless the wicked, for thou hast done enough for 
the good in making them good." It was such a 
prayer as that, that Jesus was offering all the time. 

So, when you do wrong, do not think the Good 
Shepherd will forget you : it is then he will come 
after you. You will hear him call you most ten- 
derly then, you will feel him pulling at your 
heart; something within you will tell you he is 
not far off; if nothing tells you so, it is true that 



THE. LOST SHEEP. 83 

he is not far off. He will look at you through the 
eyes of some kind teacher; he will whisper to 
you from the lips of your mother ; he will talk 
to you lower than in a whisper, when you are 
alone with your foolish heart. Do not think you 
will get out of his way where he cannot find you ; 
do not be afraid he will be tired of looking after 
you ; think of him as coming swift and sure, and 
when you think of that, stop, do not go any fur- 
ther, remain where you are, or go back, so that he 
can find you with less trouble. 

It is a very sad thing to be a lost sheep, to run 
away, and be all alone, cold and trembling, in 
danger of being run over by horses, worried by 
dogs, eaten by wolves, or carried away to the 
slaughter-house by hard-hearted men. One would 
not like to be a lost sheep, if it were only for the 
pain and peril and sorrow of it; but when one 
thinks that, if he gets lost, the good, tender Shep- 
herd must take so much trouble to find him again, 
must travel so far over the rough stones, into the 
wilderness, through the night and storm, must 
suffer so much from hunger, and be so pale and 
weary and anxious, he certainly feels like praying 
that he may never run away from the fold. 







THE PRODIGAL SON 




HEN Jesus had ended his story of the 
sheep, his listeners stood silent, as if 
i thinking over in themselves the mean- 
ing of the parable, when one, not so easily satisfied 
as the rest, spoke up, and said : — 

" Yes, Master, that is a beautiful story ; but 



THE PRODIGAL SON. 85 

there is a difference between -sheep and men. Of 
course a shepherd will go after his lambkin, for it 
is a brute creature that knows no better than to 
run away ; it has no sense, it does not know right 
from wrong, and it would be cruel to let it perish 
just because it is stupid and silly, and cannot help 
itself. But men have minds and consciences; 
when they do wrong they know it, when they go 
out of the way they mean to go out of the way ; 
they do it on purpose, and because they like to do 
it ; it gives them pleasure. Should they be treated 
like sheep ? Should they be travelled after, and 
found, and tenderly brought home ? Should not 
they be suffered to go if they will, and to lose 
themselves if they will, and to die if they will ? 
It is their own fault if they perish." 

Jesus looked at the speaker, and a tear filled 
his eye, came to the brim, and rolled slowly 
down his cheek like a pearl. He did not dispute 
with the man, nor reason with him ; it was not his 
custom to reason or dispute. If men did not see 
the truth he showed them, he had nothing further 
to say ; but he was never tired of showing them 
the truth. 



86 Stories from the lips of the teacher. 

After a pause of a few minutes, during which 
the people watched him, wondering what he would 
reply, he began, and, in a low voice, told this story 
of the Prodigal. 

A certain man had two sons, very unlike in 
their dispositions. The elder was sober-minded 
and grave ; his passions, if he had any passions, 
were always under control, and had been from 
boyhood. He never seemed to want anything he 
ought not to have, nor to desire anything that 
was not set before him ; he had no taste for fun, 
frolic, or pleasure ; he never robbed an orchard, or 
stripped a pear-tree, or plundered a poultry-yard ; 
he was never seen prowling near his mother's 
cake-chest, or putting his fingers into the jelly- 
pots; he was never caught playing truant, nor 
marked for being late at school, nor suspected of 
naughty pranks on the schoolmaster, but was fond 
of his books, always brought home a medal for 
good conduct, always did whatever his elders bade 
him. 

On growing up to manhood he had stayed 
quietly in his father's house, and now devoted 
himself to the care of his father's estates. He 



THE PRODIGAL SON. 87 

watched the farmers in the field, saw to the 
planting and gathering of crops, carried the corn 
and grain to market, paid the men for their labor, 
kept the account-books, and so forth. He was a 
good son ; never went away from home, and 
never wished to go ; never kept company with the 
young men of the village, nor with the young 
women either; never went to evening parties; 
never smoked, danced, or played cards ; never 
asked his friends to dinner, or spent the amount 
of ten cents at the theatre, or any place of amuse- 
ment. His temperament was cold, his habits re- 
served, his tastes were quiet. Such was the elder 
son. 

His brother was unlike him in every way; 
impulsive, quick, generous, eager, warm in his 
affections, ardent in his desires, restless and rapid 
in his movements, cheerful and gay in his dispo- 
sition, fond of pleasure, fond of society, craving 
the excitement of novelty, and sensitive to every 
kind of beauty in nature and in art, — full of wants 
that his brother never felt, and that the still life 
of the country could not supply. He never en- 
tered with the least interest into the tame pursuits 



88 STORIES FROM THE LIPS OF THE TEACHER. 

of his father's house. As a boy, he was more fond 
of play than he was of books ; more pleased to 
rove away in the fields than he was to stay at 
home. As a young man, he hungered and thirsted 
for adventure, longed to go and see the world, 
hung with delight over the stories of the great, 
rich cities, and the joys therein, and dreamed of 
the time when he should be able to take his place 
and play his part in the wide world. , 

These visions of happiness haunted his mind to 
such a degree, he became so impatient under the 
limits of his existence, that he felt as if he could 
not any longer endure his mode of life. His 
father's house, comfortable, pleasant, large, friendly 
as it was, had grown to be intolerable to him, — 
it seemed to be a prison ; though he had every- 
thing his father could give, that was not enough ; 
it was not what he wanted, he must go away. 

So one day, when the mood of discontent was 
on him, he went to his father, told him how he 
felt, and begged that he might have then the sum 
that would fall to him by inheritance on his par- 
ent's death. The father reasoned with the lad, 
remonstrated with him, set before him all the 



THE PRODIGAL SON. 89 

dangers he would encounter, drew a vivid picture 
of the temptations that would be thrown in his 
path, and, with tears in his eyes, begged him to 
give up so wild and perilous a purpose. All was 
of no avail, the youth was bent on his experi- 
ment; and finally the old man, seeing that he 
was fixed, gave his unwilling consent, settled on 
him his portion of the patrimony, and bade him 
go his own way. 

Overjoyed, the young man departed, with pleas- 
ure dancing in his eyes, and dreams of all lovely 
things flitting before his imagination. His heart 
was pure, his spirit buoyant, his hope high, his 
trust boundless in his own innocence and in the 
virtue of his fellow-men. He had the great 
hunger for happiness which seems to carry the 
promise with it that happiness shall be good, and 
nothing but good. 

He went far off, out of his own country, to the 
mighty city of Babylon, whose wealth and splen- 
dor and luxury drew strangers from every part 
of the earth. There were the mighty walls, sixty 
miles in circumference, and hundreds of feet high ; 
there were the gardens lifted on terraces above 



90 STORIES FROM THE LIPS OF THE TEACHER. 

the roofs of the tallest houses, fringing the walls 
with verdure, a wonder over all the East ; there 
were the massive gates of bronze ; there were the 
vast squares, where armies could wheel and march, 
and the king's bands could play martial music, 
and not be heard from side to side ; there were 
the huge piles of architecture, covering acres of 
ground, rising on arches tier above tier, and 
making the Eastern day more gorgeous with 
their roofs of gold ; there were the gilded statues 
of god and goddess, and the stupendous temples 
that made the famous one at Jerusalem look small 
and cheap ; there w T as kingship and nobility, and 
pomp and pride, — streets roaring with the traffic 
of Egypt, Arabia, India, Phoenicia, — warehouses 
heaped with gems, gold of Ophir, fabrics from 
Tyre, arms from Ashdod and Ascalon, silks from 
Damascus; there were the men and costumes of 
all nations of the earth ; there was art, literature, 
philosophy, science, religion, flourishing as one 
could see them nowhere else in the world; — - 
Babylon, the city of the Orient, the gem of the 
Asiatic continent, the diamond which the con- 
querors and emperors of the globe fought for, 



THE PRODIGAL SON. 91 

wore as the chief jewel of their crowns, and made 
magnificent at the expense of kingdoms. 

To this superb city — an empire in a city — 
the young man took his journey, in the flush of 
his first manhood. He was handsome, rich, at- 
tractive, with an endless capacity for joy. He 
hired rooms, the costliest he could find, in the 
fashionable quarter; he sought the society of 
young men like himself, who could instruct him 
in the gayeties of the town; he gave exquisite 
dinners and suppers, which were the envy of the 
epicures ; he had his chariot on the race-course, 
his blood horses, his grooms and liveried servants, 
always shining on the square at the hour when 
the fast young men of the city drove out to show 
the splendor of their equipages before the bright 
eyes of the Babylonish ladies. 

His life was a ceaseless round of merry-mak- 
ing, but it was merry-making that brought him 
into the company of the vicious, who taught him 
the fascinations of vice, and led him deeper and 
deeper into its dangerous mysteries. He became 
acquainted with every form of elegant dissipation; 
he was known as the fastest young man in Baby- 



92 STORIES FROM THE LIPS OF THE TEACHER. 

Ion, and that was saying a great deal, for Babylon 
was the fastest city in all the East. 

But' all this luxury costs money : nothing is so 
expensive as vice. He had not lived more than a 
year or two in Babylon when his funds gave out. 
For a time he went on in his extravagance, get- 
ting deeper and deeper in debt, till at length no 
man would trust him any more. His rooms were 
let, his elegant furniture seized by his creditors, 
his horses and coaches sold. He was obliged to 
hide himself from the people whom he had not 
paid ; his gay company, men and women, cast him 
off, and would have no more to do with him ; he 
skulked about from street to street, living in third 
and fourth rate boarding-houses, till he was turned 
out on the pavement, begging a little money here, 
borrowing a little there, glad to earn a penny now 
and then as porter or waiter. 

He wore his faded finery, all threadbare and out 
at the elbows; he went often days without a 
dinner. At last he was reduced to such extremity 
that he hired himself out as a swineherd, — this 
elegant young Jew, who had grown up to look 
on swine as utterly disgusting animals, and would 



THE PRODIGAL SON. 93 

have had as much horror at the thought of eating 
pig as we have at the thought of eating spiders or 
snakes. He would not once have touched a pig 
on any account whatever, — even to look at one 
made him feel unclean. Now his business was to 
tend pigs. He had to live with them in the pens 
and yards. 

There came a famine just at this time in the 
country ; food was dear ; only the rich had enough 
to eat; the moderately well-to-do continued, by 
much economy, to subsist ; the poor lived on the 
brink of starvation ; such as he starved ; no man 
gave him anything ; he munched and swallowed 
as well as he could the husks which were flung 
to the swine. 

While thus miserable, he recollected what he 
had been; he recalled the days when he was 
comfortable and happy ; he thought of his father's 
house, his pleasant room there, his little bed, his 
seat at table, the kindness, the health, the inno- 
cence. He wondered how they all were there ; 
whether he was forgotten; whether they ever 
spoke of him, and how they spoke : he fancied the 
servants carrying in dinner, and sitting clown 



94 STORIES FROM THE LIPS OF THE TEACHER. 

themselves to a dinner, the very imagination of 
which made his mouth water: why, the very 
field-hands at his father's wasted every day bread 
and meat enough to support him a week, and the 
cattle fared better than he, the darling son. 

He became so homesick as he thought of all 
this, it seemed as if he must die. He would sit 
for hours crying as if his heart would break. He 
would have gone home had he dared; he WQuld 
have walked the whole distance, all those hun- 
dreds of miles, among mountains, across deserts, 
with naked feet, but he was afraid. How could 
he face his father? He had run away, he had 
gone to a strange and far-off city, he had spent 
all his money in riot and luxury, he had made 
himself a disgrace to all the family, perhaps he 
had broken his poor old father's heart. He was 
an idler, a vagabond, a drunkard, a gambler ; his 
beauty was gone ; he could only go home as a 
beggar, to be pointed at, and talked at, and per- 
haps pushed out of the door by a servant. Could 
he submit to that ? Would it not be better to die 
at once than meet such ignominy as that? 

Finally he made up his mind to go. He would 



THE PRODIGAL SON. 95 

go just as he was; he would go in his dirt and 
rags; he would go as a beggar; he would make 
no excuses for himself, but would confess all his 
foolishness and wickedness. He would not ask 
to be taken home again as a son, or to be re- 
ceived as one who had the least claim to kindness; 
he would only ask to be hired as one of the 
workmen on the place, and to be paid the usual 
wages for the work he was able to do, — that 
was all. And with this resolution, thoroughly 
penitent, humble, and sincere, he took his staff, 
and began making his way back to his fathers 
house. It was a long way, indeed, and a weary 
way, for one who journeyed as he did, alone. 
Alas ! what rivers he had to swim or wade across ; 
what marshes to plod through, assailed by loath- 
some reptiles of the mud ; what hills to climb ; 
what sandy wastes to cross with blistering feet ! 
What fearful nights were those in the wilderness, 
with only stones for a pillow, or oftener no pillow 
at all, but a long fight to keep off the wolves who 
prowled about to devour his miserable carcass ! 
What fearful days, spent in toiling through sand, 
and gleaning such bits of food as the solitude 



96 STORIES FROM THE LIPS OF THE TEACHER. 

supplied, — a few locusts, the gum from an occa- 
sional shrub, or a little honey deposited by the 
wild- bees in some cleft of the rock, — with weeks 
of such days and nights before him, wearing him 
to the bone ! 

Meanwhile at his father's house there was re- 
membrance of him. For some time after his 
departure he was continually talked of. His 
brother, not lovingly, but dutifully, at his father's 
bidding, went daily to the market-place when the 
caravans, with their long trains of camels, came in 
from the East, to ask if such a man as his brother 
had been seen. His father stayed at home, wait- 
ing, wondering, anxious, his face paling, his fore- 
head becoming furrowed, his form bending lower 
with grief, as week after week passed, and no 
tidings came of his boy. 

They had almost ceased inquiring, when one 
day there arrived a merchant who had seen the 
youth at Babylon, and could tell, not much, but 
something, about him, — of the reputation he 
bore in the great city as a man of fashion. He 
repeated the rumors current about his wild life, 
his extravagance, his luxury, his fast style of 



THE PRODIGAL SON. 97 

living, his loose companions, his dissolute and 
unprincipled career. He was pointed out to the 
merchant at the theatre, where he sat laughing 
among his comrades, with a woman decked out in 
jewels at his side. It must have been the same 
person, for the description corresponded with that 
of the person they asked for, though the gay 
Babylonian was very handsome indeed, and did 
not look in the least as if he had been country 
bred. 

He was alive, then, but was worse than dead ; 
he was found, but only more fatally and past 
finding lost ; he was happy, but yet more misera- 
ble than the father had dared to fear. The old 
man spoke of him now with sorrow and pity. 

"Ah, my poor boy! my poor boy!" he would 
cry, the tears filling his eyes, and running down 
his cheeks, " why did I let him go ? Why was I 
so weak as to give him all that money ? Why did 
I not understand him better.? Why did I not see 
that his home here was stupid for him, and try 
harder than I did to make it bright and happy ? 
Why did I not love him so much that he could not 
go away from me ? It is all my fault. I gave him 



98 STORIES FROM THE LIPS OF THE TEACHER. 

his ardent temper, his high spirit, his taste for 
wandering and adventure, his relish for society, 
his keen enjoyment of life ; and then I shut up 
my noble youth in this dull prison, where he 
could only break his beautiful wings against the 
bars. I gave him the thirst for pleasure, and 
refused him pleasure ; I gave him fulness of life, 
and denied him life's satisfactions ; I gave him the 
quick, responsive, sensitive nature which wa& sure 
to lead him into temptation, and then gave him 
the means to stray and fall, without a single safe- 
guard of education or virtue. Of course he ran 
away; of course he went to the gay city, and 
saw its beauty, and was intoxicated, and I shall 
never see him again, not even to tell him how 
sorry I am for him, how much I love him. 
my poor boy ! my poor boy ! " 

a Poor boy indeed ! " cried out the elder brother, 
when the old man spoke in this way ; " poor boy 
indeed.! a drunkard, a gambler, a horse-jockey, the 
companion of vile women, a spendthrift, a run- 
away. Poor boy ! — poor fool, poor wretch, poor 
vagabond ! What else could you expect from such 
a lazy, scatter-brained, useless fellow as he always 



THE PRODIGAL SON. 99 

was ? He was always full of some mischief or 
other ; he never earned his salt. The farm would 
have run to weeds long ago, sooner than he would 
have given a day's attention to it. For my part, 
I shall think no more about him, and I wish you 
would not. Let him go; he is doing precisely 
what he always wanted to do ; why not let him 
go on and have his way, and see the end of it and 
the folly of it. He has chosen to sow wild oats, 
let him reap wild oats, and if he cannot feed on 
such a crop, let him starve. He has not come 
to starvation yet, it seems ; he is jolly enough 
now; — much jollier than you or I. It appears 
to me, when you speak of him sometimes, as if 
you loved him more the worse he was, and went 
deeper in your pity as he went deeper in his sin. 
Yery flattering that to some of the rest of us, 
who are good boys, and never sin at all." 

The old man seldom made reply to these bitter 
speeches of the elder brother. Once or twice he 
was roused to argue with him, to remonstrate, to 
explain, but he only made the matter worse than 
it had been before ; the conversation became a 
dispute; they had parted more than once in 



100 STORIES FROM THE LIPS OF THE TEACHER. 

anger. His son could not understand the younger 
brother, and had better not be led to speak of him. 

At length came news that the young man had 
disappeared. He had spent his money, and lost 
his credit ; his rooms were empty, his horses were 
sold, his finery had been seized by the officers. 
He had vanished, nobody knew where; probably 
he was hiding from his creditors in some other 
part of the country, or he might be skulking 
about among the dens of the great city. At any 
rate, the bubble had burst in the air, and probably 
nothing would ever be heard of it again. 

u Well, well," said his brother, " let us hope we 
never may hear of him again ; let us hope that 
he is dead, and out of the way of temptation. If 
he lives, he will live only to suffer and sin, per- 
haps to sin worse, perhaps to steal, perhaps even 
to kill, and so bring on us the last disgrace of 
crime. Death, and death alone, can save him 
from beggary and pauperism, and the last shame 
of the poor-house or the jail. Let us hope he is 
dead ; then our minds will be relieved of all 
anxiety about him." 

" no ! " exclaimed the father, " let us not hope 



THE PRODIGAL SON. 101 

he is dead ; let us hope he may be alive, and may 
come back to us. If I only knew where he was, 
I would go to him, I would go myself and seek 
him ; but now I can only pray that he may come 
to himself, and seek us. You need not tell me he 
has been weak and foolish, and has brought it all 
on himself. I know that ; but what has he brought 
on himself? — think of that. Poverty, hunger, 
thirst, exposure, scorn, shame, misery of every 
sort. 0, my son, these are terrible things to 
bear; these are frightful punishments even for 
great sin, and he is not a great sinner ; he is weak, 
giddy, wild, passionate, but he is not desj3erately 
wicked ; he always had a kind and generous heart, 
and a certain nobleness of soul that would not 
allow him to sink into the last degradation. There 
is hope of him yet, — that if he could be found 
and rescued he might be a useful, good, and happy 
man. He is very young, and all this bitter expe- 
rience may subdue and steady him, and save him 
from all danger in the future. But, at any rate, 
whether he can be brought back to virtue or not, 
he may be brought to repentance, and we ought 
to wish him to live for that. And if goodness is 



102 STORIES FROM THE LIPS OF THE TEACHER. 

one way of making people penitent, we ought to 
wish Heaven would put it in our power to be good 
to him. As for suffering, surely he has inflicted 
enough of that on himself to spare us the neces- 
sity of inflicting any. It is for us to help and 
bless him, if we can. God grant he may come 
home, and give us a chance to show that we love 
him, and enable us, by our love, to hold him by 
his heart-strings." 

So the old man yearned for his prodigal boy, 
and waited for him, trusting that the good which 
was in his heart would respond, and lead him back 
with a yearning as great and tender as his own, 
deeply believing that misery and squalor and 
shame would recall him to himself. Every night 
he prayed earnestly for his boy; every morning 
he opened his windows, and looked out towards 
the east, half expecting to see in the distance the 
well-known form walking along the road ; every 
day, when the elder son had gone into the field, 
he sat and thought of all the chances and dan- 
gers, till his heart sometimes sunk within him, 
and sometimes beat so strongly with hope that 
he started from his chair, and went to the door. 



THE PRODIGAL SON. 103 

One afternoon the assurance grew so great in 
him, that he went and stood on the door-stone 
fronting the east, and, shading his eyes with his 
hand, gazed earnestly out on the landscape. The 
air was still, the sky was clear and calm, the gray 
olive-trees threw a heavy shadow on the ground, 
the hot sun was just beginning to lose its power 
as it sped westward towards its going down. In 
the distance something moved, which seemed to 
be the figure of a man. It drew nearer, but 
slowly, and with irresolute motion; he stopped, 
rested beneath the olive-trees j — was he tired, or 
was he sick? 

He comes out of the shadow towards the house ; 
but no, not towards the house, towards the barns. 
It may be a prowling thief, some vagrant slink- 
ing about to find a lodging in the hay-loft. Poor 
he plainly is, and he comes from far. He is rag- 
ged and wild-looking; his beard is long and tan- 
gled. Who can it be ? He is sitting now on a 
stone, looking towards the house. The old man 
watches him with an t interest which deepens in 
intensity every instant. Something tells him who 
it is. 



104 STORIES FROM THE LIPS OF THE TEACHER. 

Just then the haggard stranger makes a move- 
ment that is not to be mistaken. It is he. And 
at once, without speaking a word, the father runs 
to him, flings his arm about him, presses the head 
against his bosom, puts his lips to his forehead, 
and bursts into a flood of tears. 

The boy tries to fall on his knees, but the 
father holds him up; tries to hide his shameful 
face, but the father turns it towards him, and 
gazes at it with unutterable tenderness; tries to 
murmur penitence and pardon, but the lips are 
stopped by kisses. 

" Don't love me so," sobbed, the youth at last ; 
" don't kiss me so ; I don't deserve to be loved ; 
I don't merit your kisses ; I am not your son any 
more. Let me go to the stables; let me go to 
the kitchen ; give me a crust in charity, — it is 
all I ask. I am a poor, broken, worthless fellow ; 
I cannot even ask your pardon." 

" Hush, hush ! " said the father, " you are my 
son, for you come back to me. Come in, come 
in, I have been waiting for you so long! He 
there ! make ready the bath, get out the finest 
linen, go to my wardrobe, and bring my best 



THE PRODIGAL SON. 105 

robe. You, go instantly, and call in the neigh- 
bors ; you, go and kill the fatted calf, and see 
that supper is ready at once." 

In a few minutes all was bustle and work in the 
house. The servants ran to and fro ; the guest- 
chamber was opened and aired; the table was 
laid in the great dining-room. The business of 
making ready a feast went merrily forward. Very 
soon guests began to arrive, wondering what 
cause of rejoicing there might be in the old, 
dull house. Musicians came with their instru- 
ments; from top to bottom of the mansion all 
was astir. 

All this time the elder brother was ploughing 
at the farthest corner of the farm. As the sun 
went down he finished his work, and leisurely 
sauntered towards the house. To his great sur- 
prise he saw the windows all open, and lights 
flitting to and fro, and servants running in and 
out with a haste that indicated that some extraor- 
dinary event had occurred. What could it be ? 
Was it music, too, he heard? 

" This is all very strange," he said to himself; 
"I must make some inquiry into this;" and calling 



106 STORIES FROM THE LIPS OF THE TEACHER. 

one of the servants who was almost too much out 
of breath to speak a word, he said, " What is it ? 
What is the matter?" 

" Why, do you not know ? Have you not heard 
that your brother has come back ? We are very 
busy getting up a welcome for him. We have 
killed the fatted calf, and sent out ever so many 
invitations. And your father means to make a 
grand feast." 

" Humph ! in that case I will go in by the back 
way, and get out of sight. I don't want to see 
the beggar; his coming does not make me feel 
merry. If I am asked for, say I am sick, and 
gone to my chamber." 

The man went in, and told the father, who 
knew at once what the matter was, and came out. 
He found the elder brother surly and sour, and 
deaf to all entreaty. 

" A pretty piece of business this," he muttered.* 
" Here have I been at home all these years, never 
went away, never left my work, never did a single 
thing to displease you, never gave you an anxious 
moment, never caused you a grief, and what did I 
ever get for it? When did you ever have a 



THE PRODIGAL SON. 107 

• 

merry-making for me ? You never killed so much 
as a poor kid in my honor. But here comes this 
beggar, this dissipated rascal, this broken-down 
gambler and scamp, who never did anything but 
break your heart, and you can't do enough for 
him. He must have the fine linen and the costly 
robe, while I must dress like a ploughman ; he 
must have his friends to supper, with the fatted 
calf and the old wine, while I eat barley-bread ; 
he must be the fine gentleman, having singers and 
dancers to entertain him, while I am nobody. It 
is too bad; I will not endure it; and you may 
take your choice, either him or me. If he stays 
with you, I go ; if I stay, he must go." 

" Fie, fie," replied the father, " how can you be 
so unreasonable. You know very well that all I 
had was yours; that you could see your friends 
whenever you liked. There was never need that 
you should ask me for anything, since everything 
was yours ; there was no need that I should offer 
you anything, for the same reason. You were 
always at home, and of course could not have a 
grand reception, as if you were a stranger ; you 
were never starving, and so never required the 



108 STORIES FROM THE LIPS OF THE TEACHER. 

f 

tenderest food; you were never naked, and so 
never had occasion for the best clothing; you 
were • never suffering, nor sick, nor worn, conse- 
quently it was never needful to comfort you, or 
nurse you, or show you any special kindness ; you 
never committed an offence, and therefore you 
never prayed for pardon, or were in condition to 
receive tenderness in the form of forgiveness. I 
could not lavish love on you, who did not crave it. 
But with your brother it is wholly different. Can- 
not you see that it is ? He has of his own will 
chosen to come home from his long wandering. 
He is poor, thin, pale, sick, he. needs care ; he is 
sorry, he needs love ; he is penitent, he needs 
pity. We have him once more who for so long 
was not ours. He is at home again. We must 
make his home happy, that he may not be tempt- 
ed away from it any more ; we must make him 
feel that we love him, that he may love us too. 
Come in, and do your part." 

But the angry brother would not relent, so the 
father went back alone. The evening passed 
gayly, with loud congratulations on all sides that 
the father had recovered his lost boy. 



THE PRODIGAL SON. 109 

And the boy from that time lived at home, a 
sober, industrious, and useful man, wearing an 
expression of sadness on his face always, as if 
some secret sorrow or guilt was preying on his 
mind. His father had forgiven him, but he could 
not so easily forgive himself for wounding that 
kindest of hearts. The kinder the heart showed 
itself, the sharper his pain. The thought of his 
ingratitude never left him, and it was the bitterest 
when his father was tenderest. Every word of 
love was a sting; every kiss caused him more 
anguish than a scourge of thorns would have 
done ; every look of affection came nigh breaking 
him down with remorse ; every expression of joy 
that he had come home, made him sensible afresh 
of the misery he had inflicted on that home by 
going away. He would have been glad some- 
times to hear his father scold him, load him with 
reproaches, upbraid him with his guilt. This 
constant compassion was more than he could 
bear. 

For a time his brother's coldness was a relief to 
him, because, by punishing him, it spared him the 
necessity of punishing himself more severely ; it 



110 STORIES FROM THE LIPS OF THE TEACHER. 

lightened the burden of his self-reproach ; it made 
him feel a little like excusing himself, or apolo- 
gizing for himself; it allowed him to fancy that he 
was harshly judged. But after a time, his brother, 
softened by his patience, began to relent towards 
him, and he had not now even the poor consola- 
tion of being callous and hard on that side. He 
was tender all over, and all over he suffered 
agonies of shame and sorrow and remorse. , 

To make amends for the unhappiness he had 
caused to those who loved him so much, he did all 
in his power now to please them. He helped his 
brother in his work ; he went with his father in 
his walks; he stayed at home with him in the 
evening ; he was good to the poor ; he interested 
himself in the young men and women of the 
village, and was known by all as the best of sons, 
the kindest of brothers, the most constant and 
generous of friends. The shade of sadness was 
ever on his face, but it was sweeter and more 
comforting than the smiles of other people. The 
tear came often to his eye, warm with true sym- 
pathy with sorrow and sin. It was a drop of 
balm from a broken heart. 



THE PRODIGAL SON. Ill 

So he lived to show to all men the power of 
pardon, the regenerating might of a kiss, the joy 
there is among the angels in the heart when the 
wandering come home again, and the lost are 
found. 




THE GOOD SAMARITAN. 




T was the habit of Jesus, as I have told 
you, to gather people about him in the 
public square, or under the awning over 
a wide street, and talk to them. On these occa- 
sions, any who wished, asked questions to satisfy 
their curiosity, or to bring on an argument. 
There was almost always somebody near who 



THE GOOD SAMARITAN. 113 

was ready to dispute with him, and very often his 
enemies mingled with the crowd, and threw out 
remarks, to make him say something that they 
could take hold of and turn against him. 

One day a lawyer, who was passing by when 
Jesus was teaching, stopped to hear what he had 
to say. The conversation was, as usual, about the 
eternal life, the perfect happiness. 

" But how can one have this eternal life ? " cried 
out the lawyer, loudly. "How can one get this 
perfect happiness? It is all very well to talk 
about the perfect happiness, but how can one 
obtain it? — that is the question." 

Jesus turned round to him, and answered, 
* Why, you ought to know ; it is your business to 
understand the Law of Moses and the Scriptures, 
where the Law is written. You have been study- 
ing them all your life, and they talk of little else. 
What do the Law and the Scriptures say about 
it?" 

66 0," replied the man, a the Law says, i Thou 
shalt love the Lord thy God with all thy heart, 
and with all thy soul, and with all thy strength, 
and with all thy mind.'" 



114 STORIES FROM THE LIPS OF THE TEACHER. 

"Does it say nothing more?" 

"Yes; it says, 'Thou shalt love thy neighbor 
as thyself.'" 

"Very well/' returned Jesus, "you have an- 
swered your own question. Do this, — love your 
neighbor as you love yourself, and the eternal 
blessedness shall be yours." 

" Nay," cried the man, wishing to show his wit, 
and to puzzle the Great Teacher, " that is not so 
simple as you seem to think it." 

This lawyer was one of those who study the 
Bible, not to find out what it means, but to make 
it mean what they like. He knew so much about 
it that he did not know anything ; he had read it 
till its truth was all read away, because he did not 
read it with his heart, because he used it to prac- 
tise his wit on. He could dispute about the Scrip- 
tures all day long ; he could twist and turn it in 
all directions ; he could make the easiest sentences 
so dark that you could not see any sense in them, 
and could find so many meanings in common 
words that at last they had no meaning whatever. 
There was a good chance for him to show how 
sharp and knowing he was. 



THE GOOD SAMARITAN. 115 

" It is not so simple/' said he, " as you seem to 
think. I am to love my neighbor as myself. 
Good: but what do you understand by the word 
neighbor ? Who is my neighbor ? Is it the man 
who lives next door ? or across the way ? or in 
the square hard by ? Is it my rich friend, who 
gives the dinner parties and has the elegant sup- 
pers ? Is it my first or second cousin ? or is it 
the member of the same tribe, my countryman 
or my clansman ? You may mean by neighbor 
somebody I never saw, or somebody I see every 
day ; somebody I like, or somebody I don't like ; 
it makes a great deal of difference whether you 
mean one or the other." 

He spoke all this in a loud voice, and looked 
about him with an expression of triumph, as if he 
would say, " What do you think of that now ? 
Was not that smart ? Was not that a good hit ? 
See how easy it is to stop the mouth of this wise 
man." 

Jesus took no notice of the man's tone or look, 
but quietly replied, "Perhaps I can best answer 
your question by telling you a story." 

And this is the story which Jesus told him. 



116 STORIES FROM THE LIPS OF THE TEACHER. 

A man was once travelling from Jerusalem to 
Jericho. He went that way because, being a 
good Jew, he wished to avoid passing through 
Samaria; but it was a dangerous journey. Jeri- 
cho was about seventeen miles from Jerusalem, 
towards the northeast. It was a very old city, 
and before the Israelites came from Egypt into 
the Holy Land, it was the richest and strongest 
of thirty cities, each of which had a king of its 
own. This was the city, you will remember, 
whose walls, according to the ancient Bible sto- 
ry, fell down at the blowing of Joshua's trum- 
pets. Joshua destroyed the . city, but it was 
rebuilt, and in the days of Jesus was very hand- 
some, with grand fortifications and noble palaces. 
Great numbers of priests lived there, some say 
several thousand. Their duties were in Jeru- 
salem, but Jericho was their home. It was a 
splendid city ; but its ! name was " Vapor/' and it 
has passed away like a cloud, so completely that 
the place where it rested can hardly be recog- 
nized. 

The road between Jerusalem and Jericho was 
exceedingly wild. Soon after leaving the beau- 



THE GOOD SAMARITAN. 117 

tiful valley, with its dense groves and sparkling 
water-courses, in the midst of which the latter 
city stood, the traveller entered on a rugged, 
mountainous region. The verdure by degrees 
disappeared, until at length not a bush, not so 
much as a blade of grass, could be seen. The 
surface of the ground was covered with loose 
stones, sometimes thrusting sharp edges out of 
the soil, and sometimes broken into small pieces, 
and looking as if it had been burned by volcanic 
fires. The road ran along the edge of steep 
precipices and yawning chasms, or ran beneath 
them, and was overhung by crags, fierce and 
threatening. The aspect of the whole region ' 
was very savage and desolate. The mountains 
seemed to have been started from their founda- 
tions and torn in pieces by some frightful con- 
vulsion which rent them from their base, and left 
them to be scathed and cracked by the terrific 
.heat of the sun. 

The journey was an exceedingly slow and pain- 
ful one. The motion of the horse in clambering 
lip and down the steep ragged places was tiresome 
to the last degree. Every step of the poor beast 



118 STORIES FROM THE LIPS OE THE TEACHER. 

as he went jerking and jolting along over the 
sharp stones racked the whole body and lamed 
every limb. The heat of the sun, beating directly 
down, or reflected from the walls of rock, was 
intense, and there was hardly a resting-place the 
whole dismal distance. Added to all this discom- 
fort was the terror of robbers, who lurked in the 
caverns and gorges of the mountains, leaped out 
like wild beasts on the unarmed or unwary trav- 
eller, pillaged him, beat him, killed him perhaps, 
and in a few minutes were safe from pursuit among 
the crags. One part of the road was so famous 
for these deeds of plunder and blood, that it was 
called "Adurnmim," the bloody way. 

About half-way between Jerusalem and Jericho 
the valley widened. Here there was a natural 
fountain gushing by the road-side, a rude stone 
basin that made a trough for watering horses, and 
an inn, or khan, as it was called, built of stones, 
very roughly piled together. It was a poor place, 
scarcely better than a cave, but it promised shelter 
and rest, and something like refreshment after 
hard travelling, and the sight of it, small {is it was, 
was hailed with joy by the pilgrim, scorched and 



THE GOOD SAMARITAN. 119 

thirsty, and ready to drop from his saddle from 
fatigue. 

But to our story. It was on this road, going 
from Jerusalem, that a man was riding alone. He 
was an unknown man, not rich or high-born, or 
great in office ; some merchant or artisan whom 
business called away from the great city. He had 
passed what was perhaps the severest part of the 
way, — that where the rocky road descended some 
two thousand feet from the mountains about Je- 
rusalem to the plain, — and had reached a little 
grassy nook at no great distance from the inn 
we have described. At this point a band of ruf- 
fians dashed out upon him. Being alone, he 
was quickly overpowered and beaten down with 
heavy blows, his money was taken, his clothes 
were stripped off in the twinkling of an eye, 
and the rogues were away in the hills, leaving 
him bruised, bloody, stunned, half dead in the 
road. 

There he lay, — not a soul in sight, not a house 
near enough for his groans to be heard. He was 
too weak to shout, and even if he had been able 
he would not have dared to make a noise, lest the 



120 STORIES FROM THE LIPS OF THE TEACHER. 

robbers should be lingering near/ and, hearing him, 
should come back and finish their work by killing 
him to prevent his telling tales. 

Thus he lay for some hours listening for foot- 
steps. At last he heard them with his quick ear, 
somebody was coming. Yes, somebody was com- 
ing: there was hope. The hope became very 
strong indeed when, turning his eyes in the direc- 
tion whence the sound came, he saw that > the 
traveller was a priest, a holy man, devoted to 
offices of religion, and even then probably intent 
on some pious work. He must be one of the 
brotherhood of Jericho on his way to Jerusalem 
to assist at the great festival which was to take 
place there the next day. How fortunate that it 
was a priest, and a priest of rank, too ! Not some 
trader, some merchant, some rich gentleman, who 
would not think it worth his w T hile to stop for 
such a poor fellow as he was ! How fortunate it 
was a Jew, and not some hateful Samaritan, who 
might stop and kick him as he lay in his blood 
and agony. 

The priest came nearer : he was making haste ; 
he was urging his horse to his utmost speed. 



THE GOOD SAMARITAN. 121 

" Good, kind soul ! " murmured the wounded man. 
"He has seen me, he is making all possible speed 
to come to me without an instant's delay. Ah, 
God bless him ! I hope he will not break his 
horse's legs or his own neck in his impatience to 
reach me with his succor. He must have every- 
thing I want, and he is a servant of God." 

Yes, the priest was making haste, there was 
no doubt about that ; but unfortunately his haste 
was not due quite to his anxiety to help his 
wounded countryman and fellow-citizen out of 
his difficulty. On the contrary, he was simply 
anxious to get to the end of his journey before 
nightfall, and have a comfortable sleep to pre- 
pare him for his duties on the following morn- 
ing. Those duties were exceedingly important 
and heavy. He must clean and fill the lamps of 
the golden chandelier, he must set out the shew- 
bread, he must feed the fire on the grand altar 
and take away all the ashes, he must prepare 
some of the victims for sacrifice, and be ready to 
wave the burnt flesh in the air before the Lord : 
besides all this, which was enough of itself to oc- 
cupy the whole day, he had to count the money 



122 STORIES FROM THE LIPS OF THE TEACHER. 

in the poor-box, and to blow the great brass 
trumpets several times in the course of the day, 
— a labor which required a vast deal of breath 
and was not to be done by anybody who had not 
enjoyed a good night's rest. Absorbed in thoughts 
so deep and serious, he could not loiter on his 
way. At this particular moment he was urging 
his beast very hard, for this part of the road had 
a bad name ; several murders had been committed 
there lately, and the thieves would as soon attack 
a priest as any other. Suddenly he came upon 
the wounded man, and heard him implore aid. 

"Ah!" said he to himself, "robbers about; must 
make haste ; should not like to be stopped and 
plundered, should very much dislike to be knocked 
on the head. What would they do in the temple 
to-morrow if I was not there to kill the sheep and 
oxen, burnish the lamps of the sanctuary, and 
make the fires ? Nothing would go on properly. 
It was lucky I did not come along sooner: the 
rascals might have served me as they have this 
fellow. Lord save us ! It was a narrow escape ! " 

So, without deigning to look a second time at 
the wounded man, pretending not to see him or 



THE GOOD SAMARITAN. 123 

hear him or know that he was there, he passed by 
on the other side of the way. The wounded man 
gave a deep groan, and turned on his side as if 
to die. 

Scarcely was the priest out of sight — the 
sound of his horse's hoofs had not died away 
on the air — when a Levite approached. He 
too was coming from Jericho, and, like the priest, 
was on his way to Jerusalem, being one of the 
body detailed for service in the temple on the 
following clay. He was riding comfortably along, 
when the cry of a man in pain reached his ear. 
He reined in his horse, and listened; the cry 
came again. u Perhaps it is one of my brethren," 
he said, " who has met with an accident, or been 
attacked by sudden sickness ; I must go and see." 
He crossed over, and threw a glance at the body. 

ft Poor fellow, that is a bad wound ; the man 
has been stabbed ; there are robbers ; no help for 
him now ; to stop and help him would be to waste 
time. I have ever so many things to do in Jeru- 
salem. There are the temple-gates to be opened 
early in the morning ; ever so many pots and pans 
to wash ; loaves of bread to be baked, and gro- 



124 STORIES FROM THE LIPS OF THE TEACHER. 

ceries to be bought for the priests. Then I must 
see that the singers are ready, and in practice, 
that the trumpets and sackbuts and psalteries are 
in good tune, and that the marble floors are prop- 
erly swept; after that comes the dirty work of 
slaughtering and skinning the poor beasts who 
are brought in to be sacrificed. I cannot do all 
this, and play doctor besides. I must either neg- 
lect my solemn duties in Jerusalem, or let ,this 
man die. If I stop, and do all that is necessary 
in a case like this, it will keep me here all night, 
and it will be a poor excuse to give to-morrow 
that I paused on the road to nurse a dying man. 
If it were only some great person whom I knew, 
it would be different ; but this seems to be some 
poor fellow of no account,— a publican, I dare say, 
carrying home his money-bags; served him right 
for taking poor people's shillings to support this 
vile Roman government. Let us take a nearer 
look at him. Bless me, his wound is fresh; the 
robbers cannot be far off now ; what if they 
should come back, and catch me? Hark; was 
not that the sound of horses' hoofs ? They are 
coming this very moment." 



THE GOOD SAMARITAN. 125 

Thereupon he gave his horse a blow, and made 
off, not daring to look behind him. 

The sound of hoofs which startled the Levite 
proved to be the noise, not of robbers, but of 
another traveller, whose horse came stumbling 
over the rough stones of the road. He was going 
in the opposite direction to that which the priest 
and Levite were pursuing; and the cause that 
carried them there sent him away, — namely, the 
great festival. For he was a Samaritan. Of 
course he could have no part in the solemnities, 
and no interest in them. The priest would not 
have allowed him to offer a sacrifice in the tem- 
ple, the Levite would have turned him out of the 
court-yard if he had seen him there. Very likely 
the people in the streets, under the excitement of 
religion, would have insulted him as worse than a 
Pagan. 

In ordinary times the Jew hated th& Samaritan 
so much that he would not eat, drink, or sleep 
with him; would not ride with him in the same 
company, or walk with him on the same side of 
the street, or have any business dealings with him, 
or indeed any dealings with him whatever. The 



126 STORIES FROM THE LIPS OF THE TEACHER. 

Samaritans were a different people from the Jews, 
but they were instructed in the Jews' religion. 
They had been sent to Palestine by the king of 
Babylon, to make a colony in Palestine, before the 
Israelites were sent ; and when the Israelites came, 
and began to build their new temple, the Samari- 
tans begged to be allowed to help them. This the 
Jews, in their pride of race, refused, and the Sa- 
maritans, angry at the refusal, built a temple for 
themselves on Mount Gerizim, where they had 
their own worship. 

Thus it happened that the two peoples, having 
very much the same religious belief, adoring the 
same God, venerating the same law, honoring the 
same teachers and prophets, reading the same holy 
books, rejoicing in the same national traditions, as 
well as sharing in a common humanity, never wor- 
shipped together, nor could either believe that 
God accepted the worship of the other. This old 
quarrel had lasted for ages, for religious quarrels 
always last longer and are much fiercer than any 
others ; and now this Samaritan was going away 
from Jerusalem to avoid the feast which drew the 
Jews thither. 



THE GOOD SAMARITAN. 127 

He was thinking rather sadly of all these things 
when he heard a faint cry for help proceeding 
from the road immediately before him. He has- 
tened forward, and in a turn of the path came to 
the wounded man. At once he dismounted, and, 
thinking of nothing but his duty to a human 
creature, knelt down beside him to examine the 
number and character of his hurts. 

At the first glance it was plain that the bleeding 
man was a Jew ; that was evident from his fea- 
tures. It was an enemy of his race, a man who 
on meeting him in the street would have crossed 
over- rather than touch his garment. No matter ; 
he was a fellow-creature, he was unfortunate, he 
was dying from exhaustion. 

" If I were in his place I should wish him to 
forget that I was a Samaritan ; I will forget that 
he is a Jew." 

So saying, he stanched the blood and dressed 
the wound as well as he could with ointment that 
he had with him, then he raised him tenderly and 
placed him on his own horse, he himself walking 
by the side, at once guiding the animal and sup- 
porting the man. 



128 STORIES FROM THE LIPS OF THE TEACHER. 

By good fortune, the inn I have described was 
not a great way from the part of the road where 
all this happened. To this inn the kind Samaritan 
brought his charge, and here he stayed with him 
all night, washed his wound, watched by his bed- 
side, administered soothing draughts to make 
him sleep, and mixed balsams for his wounded 
side. 

In the morning he was obliged to pursue his 
journey, but he left the sufferer in the care of 
the inn-keeper, with particular directions that he 
should have everything he w T anted, and should be 
made as comfortable as the place and what it 
could furnish would allow. To make sure that 
all should be done as it should be, he took out his 
purse, put money in the landlord's hand, and said, 
" Make him as easy as you can • let him have 
every attention possible ; do not spare expense. 
I shall be coming by again in a few days, and will 
repay to you then all he has cost you." 

With this he mounted his horse and rode aw^ay. 

When Jesus had ended his story, he turned to 
the lawyer and said, " Now for your question. 
You asked me what I meant by neighbor. I 



THE GOOD SAMARITAN. 129 

ask you, which was the neighbor of the wounded 
man?" 

The man hung his head, and muttered, " The 
person that helped him, I suppose." 

"And who was the Samaritan's neighbor ? " 

"Why, of course, the person who needed his 
help." 

« Very well ; do the same thing yourself to 
those who need your help, and you will find the 
way to the Eternal Life." 



^7<ft< 







DIVES AND LAZARUS 




HERE was once in Damascus a man who 
was very rich. He had extensive gar- 
dens stocked with the most delicious 
fruits, and fragrant with rare flowers; lovely ar- 
bors deep in the shade offered cool retreats in 
the days of midsummer, and fountains, fed by 



DIVES AND LAZARUS. 131 

water from the distant hills, played in the par- 
terres, and sprinkled the shrubbery with their 
refreshing spray. 

Everything that taste could desire or wealth 
could purchase was his; terraces and walks and 
long avenues of trees, and statues of marble 
gleaming among the bushes. His house was 
stately, with grand porches, and staircases of 
costly woods, and floors inlaid with cedar and 
ebony, and superb rooms carved and gilded by 
the artists from Tyre. 

Every day he wore the finest linen, from for- 
eign looms, and the richest cloth, stained with the 
gorgeous dyes of the Phoenicians ; he went per- 
fumed with the essences of Arabia, and gemmed 
with jewels of price from India and the sea. 
Every day he sat down to a feast to which every 
part of the earth contributed its daintiest pro- 
ducts, and as he sat at his princely fare strains 
of music stole luxuriously through the apart- 
ment, and white-armed dancing-girls, with great 
black, lustrous eyes, and forms full of grace, 
kept the air in motion with fans of peacock- 
feathers, or glided round and round in the mazy 



132 STORIES FROM THE LIPS OF THE TEACHER. 

waltz. His wine was cooled with ice from the 
Northern mountains ; the sherbet rose from por- 
celain salvers like snow-heaps on the Himalaya. 
Every night he slept on down, curtained in gos- 
samer, and was lulled to rest by the witchery of 
music. No care had he but for himself; no 
thought for the poor and suffering in the great 
city where he lived. The sick applied to him in 
vain, his liveried servants turned them sorrowing 
from the door. 

At the tall outer gate of this man, under the 
grand wall which brimmed over with the gar- 
den trees, on the hard stones of the street, sat, 
or rather lay, a beggar called Lazarus. Every 
morning he crawled thither from the miserable 
cellar where he lived, in the low part of the city ; 
every evening he made his way back to the den 
which was not worthy to be called a home, for 
there was no wife or child there to greet him or 
comfort him. The passers-by saw him always on 
the same spot, in the same rags, and many a piece 
of money dropped into his lap from the hands 
of those who pitied his distress. 

But the rich man gave him nothing. The great 



DIVES AND LAZARUS 133 

carriage whirled in and out of the gate, but no 
friendly look was bestowed on the miserable pau- 
per. The proud horses flung upon him the mud 
and dust of the road, but no blessing ever came 
from the rider. Only now and then the lower 
servants of the mansion, taking pity on the poor 
wretch, would fling him a crust of bread, or a 
piece of broken meat, which was meant for the 
dogs. 

m Poverty, suffering, scanty food, had in course of 
time caused disease ; the beggar became a cripple, 
ulcerous sores broke out on his body, making 
him an object loathsome to look at; dogs came 
about him, and, as if in pity for his agony, licked 
his sores with their healing tongues. They were 
the best friends he had. 

Thus it went on month after month, and all the 
neighborhood knew Lazarus the Beggar. He was 
never seen to smile, but he was never heard to 
curse ; he had no harsh words for those who re- 
fused him alms; he called down no vengeance 
on those who spurned him w T ith their feet ; he 
breathed no complaint against Providence : on 
the contrary, they who passed by heard him mur- 



134 STORIES FROM THE LIPS OF THE TEACHER. 

muring prayers for patience, and thanks for the 
beautiful d&y. 

At regular intervals he made his way painfully 
to the temple, crawled up the marble steps, crossed 
the broad pavement of the court as far as the 
treasury-box, and dropped in a mite for the sup- 
port of the nation's worship, or to help those who 
might be as poor as he. Want and pain and sor- 
row had made him patient, resigned, and sympa- 
thetic. His outward needs were few ; his inward 
needs were many ; his bodily wants, by long de- 
privation, had become reduced to almost nothing ; 
his spiritual wants, by the same deprivation, had 
become multiplied till their number was very 
large. 

One day the beggar did not appear at his 
accustomed place by the rich man's gate. The 
next day he did not come. No one knew whither 
he had gone ; there had been no funeral, there 
had been no sound of mourning in the streets, 
there was no gravestone in the cemetery. He 
was gone. The shadowy Angel of Death had 
come and taken the poor Lazarus away. The 
old body, — lean and bony and crooked, twisted 



DIVES AND LAZARUS. 135 

like a rope by long sitting on the sidewalk, bent 
by cramps, blackened by the blazing sun, and dry, 
cracked by disease, and speckled all over with 
leprous spots, — the miserable old body, with its 
rags and dirt and horny flesh, has dropped away 
like a cast-off snake-skin, or like the cocoon of the 
chrysalis, and the w T hite soul, which had never 
been a beggar except to God for his mercy and 
peace, had put on garments of light, and sped off 
to another home. 

No more pain for Lazarus ; no more lameness, 
no more running and disgusting sores, no more 
cold looks and colder words from the passers-by, 
no more warnings from rude people to get out of 
the way, no more compassion from the dogs, no 
more contempt from human beings ; the sky is 
broad and sweet above him. For the narrow 
street he has the green pastures and still waters 
of another clime ; for solitude, the company of 
spirits like his own. The heart that was a little 
child is living with the little children, the innocent 
with the innocent, the simple and trusting with 
those who on earth trusted and were simple. 
Not with the great or mighty or wise, who walked 



136 STORIES FROM THE LIPS OF THE TEACHER. 

in light afar off, but with the patient and devout 
and loving ones was his portion now. His form 
took shape according to the character he bore. 
His countenance was beautiful, with a sweet and 
holy illumination ; his eyes shone with meek hap- 
piness ; a quiet joy, as of a deep and humble con- 
tent, pervaded his whole bearing. There was no 
mourning for him on the earth, but there was 
welcome for him in heaven. Men said, u It is 
good to have him go." Angels said, a It is good 
to have him come." 

Not long after Lazarus was taken away, the 
same angel, whose gleaming face was hidden by 
his cloudy wings, stood at the rich man's gate. 
Sickness had been there before him, — Dives was 
dying. There he lay, helpless among his luxuries 
and splendors. With all his wealth he could not 
buy an easy breath, an hour of quiet sleep, the 
power to eat a mouthful of nourishing food, or to 
enjoy a swallow of pleasant drink. 

The physician had spent his skill on him in vain ; 
the potions, the elixirs, the essences, the cups of 
wine enriched with pearls and jewel-dust, had 
been given with no effect; relatives and friends 



DIVES AND LAZARUS. 137 

stood round the bed, or wandered through the 
superb halls reckoning up the portion of all this 
magnificence which should be theirs ; slippered 
feet moved noiselessly over the softly carpeted 
floors, and hushed voices whispered together mys- 
teriously. 

The solemn hour came and passed. The whole 
city of Damascus knew that Dives was dead. 
There was a grand funeral ; the body, embalmed 
and swathed in finest linen, was carried to a costly 
tomb cut from the solid rock, on a bier of sandal- 
wood ; a long procession of friends went with it 
to its burial-place, the street was filled by the 
crowd of hired mourners, howling and beating 
their breasts. Nothing surpassing it in expense 
had ever been seen in Damascus. It was as if a 
great man was being carried to heaven. Anybody 
would think so, certainly, who chanced to over- 
hear the conversation of the relatives and friends 
of the deceased. 

" Ah," they said, " a good man, a great man, a 
munificent man ! how kind to his family ! gave 
his wife and children all they wanted, put a thou- 
sand dollars a year into the Temple treasury. He 



138 STORIES FROM THE LIPS OF THE TEACHER. 

had the most splendid house in Damascus, the 
most extensive gardens, the most delicious fruits." 

" What taste he had for art ! " said one. 

u Yes/' said another, " and what dinners he 
gave, what suppers, what summer festivals ! He 
has gone to the good place if anybody has." 

So they gossiped along the way and at the 
street corners, for people thought then, as they 
think now, that a man who is splendid in the 
eyes of his fellow-mortals must be equally splen- 
did in the eyes of God ; that he who has the 
biggest house in this world will have the biggest 
house in the next ; that he who lives daintily on 
earth will of course live daintily in paradise ; and 
he who gives magnificent dinner-parties, with mu- 
sic and dancing-girls, will be invited to equally 
magnificent dinners hereafter, in mansions cooled 
by the airs of eternity and the plashing waters of 
life, where the seraphs should make the music and 
the houris should wait on table with their radiant 
grace. 

So men think and thought. But, alas ! then as 
now they were slightly mistaken. It was not pre- 
cisely thus with Dives. When the angel of death 



DIVES AND LAZAEUS. 139 

roused him from his sleep in this world to his 
waking in the other, the prospect was not cheerful. 
It was a dark and cloudy morning ; the scene 
was unattractive ; there were no golden ceilings, 
no marble floors, no silver-voiced fountains ; he 
seemed to be in a narrow, cramped, dirty town, 
whose streets, with miserable little tenements on 
either side, looked as if they led nowhere, but 
kept forever winding in and out, and returning 
to the same place they started from. They were 
muddy with a mud that appeared as if it never 
could be dry, so deep and desperate was it ; the 
atmosphere was chilly, bleak, and lifeless. There 
was just sunshine enough to make the heart sick 
because there was no more. The whole place 
was desolate to the last degree ; — it was like a 
pauper village. 

Dives looked about him with astonishment, but 
there being nothing in particular to see, he dropped 
his eyes, and took a survey of his own person. 
Could it be possible that this was he, Dives, the 
elegant, the sumptuous, the delicate in flesh, the 
soft in skin? This shrivelled, shrunken, sham- 
bling, shabby figure, with pinched face, and bony 



140 STORIES FROM THE LIPS OF THE TEACHER. 

fingers, and skin like a piece of old parchment ? 
True enough ; the change was very marvellous; 
the spirit was clothed now in its own form, and 
it was the form of one who had become mouldy 
by living long in a dungeon. Great livid spots of 
corruption were on him ; his bones were chalky ; 
his joints were big with bunches, like the fungus 
of an old tree ; there was a weight as of a huge 
lump of lead on his heart, and an unutterable 
weariness oppressed him, till he was ready to sink 
into the earth with loneliness, while at the same 
time he had no wish to see the face of a human 
being ; there was no love in him ; there was no 
sympathy; there was no fellow-feeling; he clung 
to himself as a drowning man clings to a spar, and 
yet, while clinging to himself, he seemed to perish, 
for it was like clinging to a corpse. 

Forms like his own were seen creeping along 
the streets, slinking in and out of the houses, 
dismally chuckling, and rubbing their hands, as 
if thinking of some pleasant things ; then shak- 
ing their heads sadly, and moving on. Here and 
there one looked as if he was happy ; but their 
smiles were more ghastly than others' wry faces ; 



DIVES AND LAZAKUS. 141 

their laughter was more hideous to hear than 
shrieks would have been ; their signs of satisfac- 
tion were horrible to witness ; and Dives turned 
away from them with a shudder, hoping he might 
never be or look like them, for they who were sad 
looked, like men and women, human like himself, 
while they that were merry looked like demons, — 
too devilish to know that they were devilish, — 
too bad to know that they were bad. 

As one of these passed close by him, Dives 
instinctively made a motion, as if he would draw 
aside his garments to save them from pollution ; 
but he had no garments ; he was naked, save only 
a piece of old rag about his waist, such as an old 
beggar wore, whom he remembered now to have 
seen sitting at his gate on the grand street of 
Damascus. Pah ! how it smelt ! what a fetid 
odor proceeded from its folds ! He unwound it, 
and threw it from him ; but the odor was still in 
his nostrils : it was the odor of his own person, 
the rank smell of his own soul. The rest, who 
were used to it, did not appear to be disagreeably 
affected by it; some evidently enjoyed it, and 
snuffed it up as if it was frankincense. They 
were the happy ones that did this. 



142 STORIES FROM THE LIPS OF THE TEACHER. 

Dives probably had always carried the effluvia 
about with him, even when he had just bathed 
himself in water scented with the ottar of roses, 
only the ottar of roses, and the sandal-wood, and the 
precious gums, and the fragrance of flattery that 
was breathing about him all the time, made it impos- 
sible for him or for those about him to perceive it. 
Now and then a very holy man, whose sense of 
smell was very acute indeed, was observed to turn 
his head one side, and hold his nose, on meeting 
Dives on the sidewalk ; but holy men were not 
very common even then, and the two or three 
who made this movement of disgust were set 
down as silly people, who took that way of show- 
ing their spite to the rich man ; or as rude people, 
who did it to insult him ; or as exceedingly coarse 
people, whose olfactories, unaccustomed to delicate 
perfumes, could not bear the aromatic odor of so 
much sanctity. This was what Dives himself 
thought about it; but now he saw his mistake. 

As his eye accustomed itself gradually to the 
sight of the region he was in, Dives perceived far 
away what seemed a beautiful garden. He made 
his way towards it, and on approaching nearer 



DIVES AND LAZARUS. 143 

had his first impression confirmed. It was a spa- 
cious garden, with terraces, paths, fountains, ar- 
bors, lawns, flower-beds, — precisely like his own 
in Damascus, only far more stately and exquisite. 
The mighty palm-trees were waving there, and 
heavy clusters of grapes hung on the vines, and 
the scent of odorous flowers made the neighbor- 
hood rich. He went to the gate ; it stood wide 
open ; and within he could see bright forms mov- 
ing to and fro, conversing, or meditating, or re- 
posing beneath the shade. 

A group of these forms chancing to come by 
the gate, Dives ventured to accost them, saying, 
" What place is this, and who are these that seem 
so peaceful and glad ? " 

One of the company answered, "'This is the 
paradise of the simple and trusting and pure of 
heart, who in the world were patient and humble." 

" And who is that one I see yonder sitting by 
the fountain, and talking eagerly to those about 
him ? He seems to be a new-comer." 

ft That," replied the angel, u is Lazarus." 

"What! Lazarus of Damascus, the same that 
sat begging so many years at my gate?" 



144 STORIES FROM THE LIPS OF THE TEACHER. 

"Yes, the very same. He is, as you guess, a 
new-comer, and is telling of his past life." 

a I wonder if he would not remember me : let 
me go in and speak to him ; I am sure he will 
know me, and give me a place in his dwelling." 

" Nay," said the messenger, * it is impossible ; 
you cannot come in. When you were inside the 
garden in Damascus, and he was outside, you 
would not let him come in to you ; you charged 
your servants to spurn him from the door : now 
you cannot go in to him. But it is not he who 
keeps you out. The reason you cannot go where 
he is, is that that is not your place - you do not 
belong there : the same thing that hindered your 
going to him before hinders your going to him 
now, — namely, your hard, cold, selfish disposition; 
he was then the same that he is now, just as gen- 
tle and pure and peaceful ; the only difference is 
in his clothes : if you found his company distaste- 
ful before, you will find it no less distasteful still. 
Try ; you may come in if you can." 

Dives strode forward to enter the gateway ; but 
no sooner did his foot touch the threshold than he 
stopped; he could go no farther; invisible hands 



DIVES AND LAZARUS. 145 

seemed to push him back ; his feet were bound by 
unseen fetters; he gasped for breath like one 
coming from a foul, stifled room into the clear air 
of a winter's day; the atmosphere was too fine 
for his lungs ; his head turned round from giddi- 
ness ; the sweet light pained his eyes, so that he 
was forced to shut the lids ; every sense was over- 
powered, and he would have sunk to the earth if 
he had not at once stepped back outside the en- 
closure. 

" You see," said the divine one, " it is as I told 
you ; there is a great gulf between you and Laz- 
arus, which you cannot cross over till you become 
as he is." 

" Alas ! " cried Dives in his agony, " speak to 
him for me then ; if I cannot go to him, tell him I 
am here, and pray him to come to me ; tell him 
his old neighbor desires to see him ; he will come, 
I am sure, if he is as good as you say : he can 
come, can he not? he can cross the gulf?" 

"No," returned the speaker; "the same abyss 
that keeps you from him keeps him from you; 
he cannot pass over it any more than you can. 

He would be as much out of place here where 

10 



146 STORIES FROM THE LIPS OF THE TEACHER. 

you are, as he would have been in your grand 
house in the rich city. He might be sorry for 
you, as I am, as we all are ; but he cannot help 
you. You must help yourself by repentance and 
tears." 

He was turning away with these words, when 
Dives implored once more, not in his own be- 
half, but in behalf of his brothers, who were 
still alive on the earth : " For pity's sake," he 
cried, "let them be warned in time; let them 
know where I am, and what I suffer ; let Lazarus 
go to them and tell them of his fate and mine, 
that they at least may be saved." 

The angel shook his head sadly as he respond- 
ed, " Nay, neither may this be done. Your broth- 
ers would not believe what Lazarus told them ; 
they would not believe it was Lazarus that spoke ; 
they would scout the message as an imposture, 
and would call the messenger ghost. The story 
would sound to them absurd and ridiculous of 
their great relative in misery, and the beggar 
at his door in bliss. No, no, it would be of no 
avail. If they will not believe the written words 
of venerable Scriptures, they will not believe the 



DIVES AND LAZARUS. 147 

spoken words of one they do not know ; if they 
will not be persuaded by the voices of kings and 
prophets, they will not be persuaded by the voice 
of a pauper; if they can listen unmoved to the 
pleadings of their humanity, they will listen un- 
moved to the pleadings of an apparition. There 
is the same on that side the grave to teach them 
how to live that there is on this side, more evi- 
dent, more plain, more convincing too, — exam- 
ples of good and evil men. If the living can 
teach them nothing, I am sure the dead cannot 
teach them ; they must take their chance. Laz- 
arus had no better. May they have the good 
sense to use their chance as well as he used his, 
better than you used yours." 

Having spoken these words, he withdrew with 
his friends, and the sound of their silvery voices 
on the air was like the ringing of sweet bells 
calling Dives to repentance. 




THE TEN VIRGINS 




HERE was a wedding in the village of 
Bethlehem. A wedding is a very inter- 
esting and important event everywhere, 
and has been so since men and women were men 
and women. But nowhere were weddings more 
solemn than in Judaea, where Jesus lived. There 



THE TEN VIRGINS. 149 

were a great many things to be done before two 
young people could be properly — by which I 
mean respectably — married. The lady's father 
and mother must be consulted about the match. 
The elders met and talked it over. There was 
money to be paid : sometimes by the young man 
to his bride's father, and sometimes by the bride's 
father to the young man. There were papers to 
be signed, pledges and promises to be made. All 
this was a matter of business, which the lady knew 
nothing about. When the young people were 
engaged, and before they were married, they did 
not see each other every day, as is the custom 
with us. They did not walk together by moon- 
light, nor drive together in the country, nor sit 
alone together in the parlor ; they remained apart 
from each other even more than they did before ; 
in fact, they did not see one another at all till the 
wedding-day. Nor did they meet then in the 
same way that we do. It is the fashion with us, 
you know, for the bridegroom, at the time fixed 
for the wedding, to go with his friends to the 
house of the bride's father, the members of both 
families come in, the ceremony is performed by 



150 STORIES FROM THE LIPS OF THE TEACHER. 

the clergyman, and after the ceremony there is a 
grand supper, with wine and flowers and merry- 
making. And then the bride goes with her hus- 
band to his own house. 

Among the Jews, the bridegroom, with a com- 
pany of young men of his own age, his intimate 
friends, went in happy procession, with torches 
and garlands and songs, to the dwelling of his 
bride. On the way he was met by a band of 
girls, the companions of her he was to make his 
wife, approaching from the opposite direction. 
The two processions join, the girls turn back, 
and the whole gay troop proceed to the house 
of the betrothed, receive her with glad shouts, 
take her into their ranks, and bear her off to the 
house of the young man. There the guests are 
assembled, the tables are spread with dainties, 
musicians play their sweetest music, and the fes- 
tivities last long into the night. 

On the occasion we speak of in Bethlehem, the 
two houses were somewhat far apart, the prepara- 
tions were rather grander than usual, and the 
young men, belated, did not begin their merry 
march as soon as they had intended. It was 



THE TEN VIRGINS. 151 

towards midnight when they started from the 
bridegroom's house. The young girls who were 
to meet them on the way, ten in number, took 
their position early in the evening with their 
torches burning brightly, and looked eagerly in 
the direction whence the bridegroom was to come. 
They were before their hour. To half of these 
giddy girls it never occurred that there would 
be any delay, or the least necessity for waiting. 
They made no preparation for tardiness, or hin- 
derance, or stoppage. They knew about how 
long their torches would burn, and they supposed 
that would be long enough, and more than long 
enough. The other five were more prudent; they 
remembered the length of the way and the chan- 
ces of detention ; they said within themselves, 
weddings never are punctual, and there are al- 
ways so many things to be done at the last mo- 
ment; nobody thinks of time when all are so 
busy. This, too, is to be a grand wedding,, with 
large preparations and a great many people ; of 
course there will be delays ; the supper will not 
be ready, the guests will not all arrive in season ; 
there will be no harm in taking a little more oil, 



152 STORIES FROM THE LIPS OF THE TEACHER. 

so that ; if our torches burn low, we may fill them 
again. It may not be wanted, but then, again, it 
may be. It is safer to have too much than too 
little. So they took their oil-cans with them 
when they left home. 

Behold the ten girls grouped together at the 
entrance to the bride's house, beneath the porch, 
laughing and talking, as young girls will at such 
times. An hour passed away : two hours. What 
can be the matter? said one to another. Are 
they never coming? I was never kept waiting 
so long before; a mischance must have hap- 
pened. Presently they began to grow drowsy ; 
they could not keep their, eyes open ; they placed 
their torches against the wall of the house and 
sat down. Soon, one by one they fell off to 
sleep. They had been asleep but a little while 
when a loud noise started them all from their 
slumber. The night was merry with laughter, 
and bright with the flashing of torches. The 
young men were shouting, " Up, up ! the bride- 
groom is coming, the bridegroom is coming, ad- 
vance and meet him!" 

There was great commotion among the girls. 



THE TEN VIRGINS. 153 

They stretched themselves, rubbed their eyes, got 
to their feet as well as they could, grasped their 
torches. Alas ! they were almost out ; the wicks 
were crusted and foul, the flame was just on the 
point of leaving them. There was not a moment 
to lose ; they who had brought oil with them in 
their cans quickly poured it into the shallow 
bowls of the lamps, snuffed the wicks hastily, 
and were ready to move on. The rest were at 
their wits' end ; what was to be done ? They 
could not go without torches, their torches w T ere 
burned out, they had no oil to fill them. Full of 
distress, they seized hold of their companions, cry- 
ing, u Give us some of yours." But they said, 
" We cannot do it ; we have no more than 
enough for ourselves ; if we should divide what 
we have, all our torches would go out. You 
must run round to the shop and buy some, quick. 
The silly girls ran off to the nearest shop; it was 
not very near, and when they reached it of course 
it was closed, and the man who kept it was sound 
asleep. They called, they knocked at the door, 
they made noise enough to alarm the street. 
The oil merchant slept well and was hard to 



154 STORIES FROM THE LIPS OF THE TEACHER. 

wake. When he awoke, it took some time to 
open the door, and more time to measure out 
the small quantities of oil from the jar. 

Furnished at length, the girls set off at a quick 
pace, running till they were fairly out of breath. 
They heard the music in advance of them, they 
saw the glimmer of the torches against the sky, 
a few minutes more and they should catch the 
procession. Heated, panting, they endeavored to 
increase their speed; but, instead of going faster, 
they went slower, for they were already spent. 
Just as they came in sight of the house, they saw 
the door open, the glare of the illumination in- 
side streamed out into the night, the procession 
crowded in noisy, there was a moment's bustle, — 
and the door was shut. 

The poor belated girls slackened their pace, but 
still pushed on to the house, and knocked at the 
door. No answer ; there was so much noise in- 
side, such loud talking and laughing, such clatter 
of dishes, such din of musical instruments, that 
they were not heard. At length the bridegroom 
heard their cry, "Open the door," and called to 
know who they were. 



THE TEN VIRGINS. 155 

"It is we," they said, " friends of the bride." 
a How do I know that ? " he answered. u You 
were not in her company, you did not come with 
the rest ; all are here who belong here. I cannot 
admit you." 

In vain they told their story, in vain they im- 
plored ; he would not let them in, and after stand- 
ing outside till the night chill struck into their 
bones, they went away, tired, sad, ashamed. They 
had missed the wedding feast, the joy, the praise, 
and all because they forgot to put a little oil into 
their vessels. They had been looking forward for 
weeks to this brave marriage party, they had 
bought new garments for it, they had guarded 
their fair looks, they had boasted among their 
companions of the honor done them by the bride 
when she chose them as her maids, and now by a 
trifling carelessness they had lost it all, and stood 
angry at their disappointment and mortified at 
their rejection. They were not ready, and so 
they were shut out. They failed in one thing, 
the thing at that moment needed, and the failure 
was complete. They had everything else, but 
they did not have oil j they had beauty, grace, 



156 STORIES FROM THE LIPS OF THE TEACHER. 

wit, sprightliness, but they did not have oil. 
They were prepared for all that could happen ex- 
cept the very one thing that did happen, and the 
door was shut on them. 

It was a sad story, and Jesus told it sadly. Do 
you ask me why he told it? I will tell you. 
He knew that something was about to happen 
which his friends did not expect, and which 
would take them by surprise just as the bride- 
groom's coming surprised the silly girls. He had 
told them often what it was, but it was very far 
off, and they would not believe him ; they did not 
get ready for it. They were strong enough for 
what befell from day to day, and they never imag- 
ined that anything could befall for which they were 
not strong enough. They had no idea of being 
caught suddenly, in a moment, unprepared. yes, 
they thought they had oil enough in their lamps. 

But one day it came like a flash of lightning out 
of the sky, — this thing which, if they had paid 
attention to what their Master said, they would 
have been sure might come, and would come 
sooner or later. Their Master was seized by sol- 
diers, and carried away like a criminal to be tried 



THE TEN VIRGINS. 157 

for his life. They, like the virgins, were asleep in 
the garden of Gethsemane. A great noise roused 
them; they started from the ground; the night 
was aglow with the blaze of torches in the hands 
of guards ; the stillness was broken by the clash 
of swords and spears. Their Master, whom they 
had been looking for in pride and pomp, stood 
before them a prisoner. What did they do then ? 
Were they ready to go with him ? Were their 
lamps full of the holy oil of faith and courage ? 
Alas, no ! They flickered a moment, and went 
out. The history says, they all forsook him and 
fled. Was not that sad ? After having left their 
business and their homes to follow him, after hav- 
ing borne so much ridicule and so many frowns, 
after giving so many months, and taking so many 
weary journeys, and forsaking brothers and sisters, 
and hoping through so many discouragements, 
was it not sad to fail just at this last moment of 
trial ? Having so much power, was it not a pity 
they had not just that little more ? 

But so it was. Peter, who boasted so proudly 
that he was willing to die with his Master, was 
the only one of the company that followed him ; 



158 FROM THE LIPS OF THE TEACHER. 

and Peter followed at a distance so that he might 
not be known for a disciple. Peter went only, as 
far as the outer porch of the building where Jesus 
was taken by the soldiers, and when he was 
known there as being one of his disciples, he de- 
nied it flatly, and said with an oath that he had 
nothing to do with the prisoner. The Bride- 
groom came with his hands tied, and a crown of 
thorns upon his head, came at midnight, and the 
servant's lamp had gone out. 

My dear children, you have too little oil if you 
have not enough to last all night. You are weak, 
if your strength is not sufficient for the hardest 
work that may be given you to do. 

When I was travelling in Europe, some years 
ago, I came one day to what seemed the bed of a 
small river; but there was no river there, only 
a thin, shallow rivulet, that crept slowly along, 
scarcely moving the pebbles on the bottom, and 
running round the larger stones, because it had 
not body enough to pass over them, or force 
enough to push them aside. In some places it 
was so small that I felt as if it must come to a 
stop from sheer weakness, being too tired to go 



THE TEN VIRGINS. 159 

any further. It looked in the distance like a fine 
silver cord laid down in a ravine. A child might 
have crossed the brook at its deepest part without 
wetting its knees ; but, will you believe it ? I actu- 
ally crossed it by a huge stone bridge that looked 
as if it had been built by giants. It stretched 
from shore to shore of a wide channel, and at 
either side was strengthened by immense but- 
tresses, clamped with iron bars. In the middle 
of the river-bed rose two vast columns of ma- 
sonry supporting arches of great height and mag- 
nificent proportions, three in number. These 
columns, that seemed mighty enough to be pillars 
of the sky, were protected on the side that faced 
up the stream by bulwarks of tremendous size, solid 
granite piers, sharp at the end like wedges. To 
erect such a structure must have cost months of 
toil, and thousands on thousands of dollars. And 
why was it erected there ? Why in that, of all 
places in the world, where a single plank laid 
across would answer all purposes of passing from 
one bank to another ? Marvelling greatly at such 
a waste of material and labor, I went my way. 
It was summer. Some months later I passed the 
same way again. It was in the season of the 



160 STORIES FROM THE LIPS OF THE TEACHER. 

heavy rains. The torrents from the mountains 
came tumbling, pouring, boiling down, headlong, 
furious, carrying everything before them. Great 
trees were torn up by the roots, and hurled on- 
ward as if they had been chips or straws ; enor- 
mous pieces of rock, loosed from the mountain- 
sides or wrenched from the sand, came down with 
the flood, crashing and shattering all before them. 
The channel that had been so dry before was now 
full to the very edge with the foaming tide ; the 
rivulet was a torrent that raved round the bul- 
warks of the bridge, and rose nearly to the height 
of the gigantic columns, till the tall arches looked 
scarcely high enough to let the turbulent waters 
pass through. It was all the bulwarks of ada- 
mant could do to turn aside the rocks that were 
hurled against them, and to break the force of 
the forest-trees. Had the bridge been less huge 
than it was, it must have been carried away. 
Had it been less strongly built, it must have been 
dashed in pieces. It was made for just such a 
time as that was. The freshet came down never 
more than twice in a year, generally no more 
than once. The structure was erected to with- 
stand that single freshet. Useless all the rest of 



THE TEN VIRGINS. 161 

the year, it was absolutely necessary then. If it 
was not there at that moment, it might as well 
have not been there at all, for that was the mo- 
ment of need, that was the moment of danger, 
that was the moment when no one could have 
passed the stream without it. 

But huge bridges, such as this was, are not con- 
structed in a few days ; the people could not wait 
till they saw the floods rising before they began 
to lay their stones ; the work must be begun, con- 
tinued, and finished in the summer season, when 
the bed of the stream is dry ; and there it must 
stand all the year round, whether needed or not, 
in drought and in deluge, a stupendous monument 
of human industry and patience and foresight, in 
order that it might be there the very instant 
it ivas needed. It must be a thousand times 
too strong eleven months in the year, in order to 
be just strong enough the twelfth month. But 
the services rendered that twelfth month amply 
paid for all it cost in toil and treasure. 

My children, do you understand the story of the 

Virgins, and of the Bridge ? Think about it, and 

you will. 

11 




THE TALENTS. 




NCE upon a time there was a rich and 
noble prince, who was obliged to leave 
his dominions and travel for a time in a 
far country. Not knowing how soon he might re- 
turn, he called three of his officers and intrusted 
to them certain gifts, — talents we will call them, 



THE TALENTS. 163 

though they were not talents, for talents were 
sums of money. 

To one he gave Genius, — the genius which cre- 
ates works of beauty, the genius of the artist. It 
was necessary that his halls and chambers, his 
churches, porticos, and palace saloons, should be 
decorated with pieces of exquisite art, — portraits 
of his ancestors, views of natural scenery, histor- 
ical events, famous for heroism and nobleness ; 
therefore to this one of his servants he gave 
Genius. 

To another he gave the power to create wealth. 
He had great need of money for all magnificent 
works which he designed for his palaces and gal- 
leries, his museums, churches, libraries, his public 
buildings of all kinds. 

To the third servant he gave a good heart, — the 
power of loving and gaining love : only that ; no 
genius, no wealth, no beauty, only a kind disposi- 
tion. 

Then he went away, leaving the servants to use 
their talents each in his own fashion, but giving 
them to understand that they must use them. 

The first servant was full of joy at the noble 



164 STORIES FROM THE LIPS OF THE TEACHER. 

gift he had received at his prince's hands, and all 
his friends congratulated him on his golden talent. 
Without delay, and with the utmost eagerness he 
set to work to increase it. Day and night he 
studied and labored : he went out into the woods 
to study the trees, he went among the mountains, 
he lingered by the sea-shore, he was up early to 
watch the sunrise, and every evening as the sun 
went down his eye was open to see all the glory, 
his heart was open to feel all the peace of it. He 
watched Nature in all her moods and aspects 
with an earnest love in his look that made Nature 
all his own. Then he read books, the books of 
the great lovers of beauty. He travelled in great 
cities, and saw all the pictures of world-famous 
artists, all the time kindling the sentiment of 
beauty in his soul, and filling his imagination with 
shapes of loveliness, so that every beautiful thing 
he saw left its image on his heart. He saw more 
beauty in the world in the course of a rainy day 
than most people saw in the course of a bright 
month ; he saw more beauty in ugly things than 
most people saw in handsome ones; faces from 
which others turned away in disgust had for him 



THE TALENTS. 165 

a charm in line or feature or expression which he 
could hardly describe. 

Having thus educated his eye and his feelings, 
he educated his fingers, in order that he might 
use the brush skilfully, and lay colors well on the 
canvas. Soon his fame as an artist began to 
spread; first in the city where he lived, then in 
neighboring cities, finally in foreign countries 
where he had never been seen. His painting- 
room was visited by strangers who came to the 
city, his pictures were bought at a great price, 
and those who had never seen any of his work 
were so much delighted by all they heard of him 
that they begged him to paint for them anything 
he chose, and they would pay him whatever he 
asked. Rich gentlemen, ladies fair and high-born, 
great nobles and princes of the realm, came to his 
door in their gilded carriages to sit to him for 
their portraits, and kings of other lands asked 
him to come and take up his abode with them, 
and let them have the' honor of maintaining his 
genius and reflecting his glory. To have one of 
his landscapes in a parlor was a privilege the best 
might envy ; to have one of his portraits in a hall 



166 STORIES FROM THE LIPS OE THE TEACHER. 

gave distinction to a house. The walls of kingly 
mansions were covered with his glowing canvas, 
great scenes of victory, and martyrdom, and saint- 
liness; and people as they entered churches 
stopped in the alcove or by the window, where 
hung the picture of prophet, apostle, or angel 
from his hand, — stopped and looked at it with 
joy on their faces and light in their eyes, just as 
if the real prophet, apostle, or angel stood there 
to bless them. It was very wonderful the power 
this man had. No matter what he painted, it was 
beautiful in all eyes from that moment. 

One day as he was crossing the public square 
he saw what everybody sees every day of his life, 
but few ever bestow a thought on,— a mother with 
her little boy in her arms. She was a poor coun- 
try-woman, in the cheap dress of her class, of 
common stuff but very bright colors. She wore 
nothing on her head, her feet were bare, but the 
face was sweet and full of mother's love for her 
babe. She was standing idly on the sidewalk, 
enjoying the light of the afternoon sun. Picking 
up a piece of wood that lay at his feet, the artist, 
with a few touches, sketched the little group, 



THE TALENTS. 167 

and passed on. Not long after, a picture of this 
mother and child hung up in his studio. People 
looked at it with astonishment. They never 
knew how much there was in this common moth- 
er's love ; they had no idea the face of a woman 
could be so beautiful; they had never imagined 
that ordinary human affection could be glorified so. 
It was the face of an angel, and yet it was only 
the face of a woman. It was a revelation to all 
that saw it ; as they looked at it, they could only 
think of the Divine love, the love of the Virgin 
Mother for the infant Jesus. The painting was 
hung up in a great church, and the people, when 
they came in and saw it, felt like falling down on 
their knees before it and worshipping. It brought 
the heavenly pity so near, that crowds would go 
and stand by it till their hearts were too full of 
feeling to hold, and ran over their eyelids in tears. 
Sad people were comforted by gazing on the ce- 
lestial face, and even sinful people were so touched 
that their hearts were broken, and all the sin 
came out. Any day you might see women with 
their children in their arms looking up at the dear 
eyes, and poor girls weeping before them penitent 



168 STORIES FROM THE LIPS OF THE TEACHER. 

and forgiven. The picture was copied a great 
many times, and placed in a great many churches, 
and always it was like a real angel in the building. 

So this servant improved his talent. 

The second servant, too, improved his. His 
lord had given him the power to create wealth, 
and he went to work with all his might to cre- 
ate it. He made journeys by land and by sea; 
he bought and sold ; his wealth increased fast and 
faster, from month to month, till he became a very 
rich man. His ships were on all waters and in 
all ports; his warehouses were full of silks and 
velvets and costly bales of goods from every 
quarter of the globe ; he owned farms and vine- 
yards', houses in the country and houses in the 
town; the richest portion of rich cities belonged 
to him : he was a merchant-prince. 

Having all this money, it seemed as if he could 
do anything he pleased. He became a famous 
and powerful man in the state ; his friendship was 
sought far and near. How he was envied! How 
he was fawned on and flattered! How he was 
courted by all sorts of men who wanted money 
for their purposes ! by merchants, who wanted 



THE TALENTS. 169 

money for their business; by scholars, who wanted 
it for their books; by good men, who wanted it 
for charity ; by bad men, who wanted it for pleas- 
ure; by politicians, who wanted it to buy the 
people ; by statesmen, who wanted it to pay the 
government debts ; even by kings, who wanted it 
to hire soldiers to fight their battles, to purchase 
guns, and swords, and spears. All came to the 
great rich man ; good men were forgotten, saintly 
men were neglected, wise men were passed by; 
the rich man was the great man. Even the 
painter stood second to him, for could he not 
buy all the painter's pictures? So the gilded 
carriages rolled up to his door, and nobles had 
to wait in his hall till he chose to see them. 

But he remembered who it was that gave him 
this wonderful talent. He knew that it was not 
his, but his lord's, who would come home and de- 
mand an account of it, and the use he made of 
it; and instead of wasting it in useless enjoy- 
ments, in rich garments, and delicious food, and 
costly furniture, he kept it for his master's use. 
When he knew what his lord would be glad to 
have him do with it, he took pains to do that 



170 STORIES FROM THE LIPS OF THE TEACHER. 

thing. For instance, he was very sure that his 
lord would like to do something for the poor, the 
sick,, the miserable; so he caused houses to be 
built for those who had no homes, asylums for 
the weak, the decrepit, the aged, hospitals for 
the care of the sick and wounded; he interested 
himself in the education of the humbler classes 
of people, and hired good men to go about 
among the wicked, to visit the jails, to preach to 
the ignorant. A great deal of the money he 
made was spent in this way, because he was quite 
certain that he should please his dear lord by 
doing so. What he did not spend in some such 
way as this, he kept till his lord should come 
home and tell him what to do with it. 

So this good servant used his talent. 

The third servant was not so faithful as the 
other two. He said to himself, * This is a small 
talent which my lord has given me ; I cannot do 
much with it. If I had, now, the artist's genius, 
or the rich man's money, that would be worth 
while; then I could do something. I could get 
power and influence, I could make myself a name, 
I could do some credit to my lord ; but who can 



THE TALENTS. 171 

do anything with this little feeling of kindness 
that he has planted in my heart ? It may be 
good, and sweet, and pleasant, in its way; it 
makes my home cheerful, it makes my wife and 
children love me, it makes my friends attached 
to me ; but what of that ? It will never make 
me rich, or great, or famous ; it will never paint 
pictures, nor build grand houses, nor erect col- 
leges and hospitals. On the whole, I think I may 
as well let it alone, and try to do something with 
some other talent." 

So he did his best to make money, to get office, 
to acquire reputation, as other men did who had 
great gifts, which he had not. It was all in vain, 
of course ; he lost his time, his strength, his spir- 
its; constant failure, discouragement, and defeat 
soured his temper and imbittered his heart. He 
succeeded in nothing that he undertook, and be- 
cause he did not succeed, he became cross and 
crabbed ; he envied those .who had more riches 
than he had; he was angry with those who 
gained the high places ; he spoke ill of those 
who were sought by the great and proud. After 
a time his friends seemed less dear to him, he 



172 STORIES FROM THE LIPS OF THE TEACHER. 

took less pleasure in his children, he even felt 
less love to his wife ; hie was peevish and sullen ; 
his home was sad. 

So it went on for several years, at the end of 
which the lord returned. One of the first things 
he did on his return was to call to him his three 
servants, and ask them how they had used the 
talents he had given them. Then came the first, 
the artist, with the light of genius in his eyes, and 
the words of eloquence on his lips. He took his 
master to his studio where his last great picture 
hung; he carried him through the long galleries 
rich with the work of his hands; he visited with 
him the churches whose splendid altar-pieces were 
the wonder of the time; he set before him the 
landscapes, the portraits, the scenes of victory 
and heroism, which men and women admired. 

" Well done, well done ! " said the prince, " you 
have used your talent faithfully; you have exe- 
cuted great works, you have enriched my domin- 
ions and conferred an everlasting benefit on all 
my people ; you have been cultivating yourself, 
making your own being rich, and at the same 
time you have been adding to the happiness, the 



THE TALENTS. 173 

nobleness, the goodness of all mankind ; you have 
been a teacher of heroism -and holiness to all that 
know you, and they are legion. Sit here at my 
right hand : be my honored and dear friend." 

Then turning to the second, he said, " And what 
have you done ? " 

The second showed him what he had done : he 
brought out the great books of accounts, which 
told how fast his wealth had increased, gave him 
the number of his ships, his warehouses, his es- 
tates, opened chests of jewels and gems, opened 
bales of costly stuffs, and ended by conducting 
him all over his hospitals and asylums. 

The lord was greatly delighted when he saw 
all this, and praised his servant greatly for his 
industry. He had done well; he had multiplied 
his talent many, many times : he, too, should have 
a high place in his friendship. 

Then came the third servant, slouching along, 
with his eyes fixed on the ground, as if he was 
ashamed to look his lord in the face. He would 
not have come, had he dared to stay away, and 
now he came, he came like a criminal. "Well," 
said the master, " and what have you done ? 
What can you show ? " 



174 STORIES FROM THE LIPS OF THE TEACHER. 

66 Nothing." 

"Nothing? Nothing? Where is the talent I 
gave you?" 

u It is buried in the ground." 
66 Why did you bury it in the ground ? " 
" Because I could turn it to no account ; it was 
too small to make anything of. It would not give 
me wealth, nor honor, nor reputation. Besides, 
I knew that whatever I did with it would bring 
me nothing j all the profit would belong to you. 
Suppose I did work, and drudge, and slave, you 
would claim it all ; you, who had been spending 
your time pleasantly in strange lands, would just 
put out your hand and seize what did not belong 
to you. Why should I toil for you ? " 

The lord, hearing such words as these, was very 
angry. " Toil for me ! " he cried. " Do you not 
toil for yourself as much as for me ? Did the art- 
ist receive nothing for improving his talent ? Did 
the merchant receive nothing for improving his ? 
Have I made them poor ? Have I robbed the 
artist of his feeling of beauty, his imagination, 
his joy in all lovely things ? Have I taken from 
the merchant his liberal and noble mind ? 



THE TALENTS. 175 

" Your talent was small, was it? You may think 
so, because you think nothing large that does not 
make a great show \ but it was really no smaller 
than the rest had. If you had used it, even if 
you had not done all you might with it, if you had 
used it at all, it would have given you a perfectly 
happy heart, though it would not have made you 
rich or famous. I did not mean it should ; but it 
would have given you something a great deal bet- 
ter than wealth or fame : it would have given you 
contentment and peace ; by improving it a little 
more, it would have given you a very dear and 
beautiful home, full of love and goodness, where 
there should be no unkind words or deeds, no dis- 
obedience, no coldness, no selfishness, — where all, 
from the oldest to the youngest, should help one 
another, comfort and cheer and bless one another, 
— where the children should grow up to revere 
their parents, and the parents should treat their 
children as friends, — where love should make it 
easy to bear poverty and do hard work, and 
duty should be delightful, and care a joy. 

" By improving your gift a little further, you 
might have made a great many people your 



176 STORIES FROM THE LIPS OF THE TEACHER. 

friends. You might have carried your love out- 
side your own home to the homes of others ; you 
might have made sad homes happy, and dark 
homes bright, by your look, your voice, your 
gentleness ; you might have gone into these hos- 
pitals which my servant has built, and comforted 
the poor patients there on their sick-beds, and 
made the dim eyes and the sorrowful faces light 
up at your coming with a sudden pleasure, and 
caused wretched sufferers to look for you as for 
the light of day, and bless you from the bottom 
of their hearts. Would not that be something 
worth laboring for? Is it a. small talent that can 
be used to such effect as that ? Is it a poor gift 
that brings all this reward ? 

a If you had chosen to cultivate it still more, it 
would have brought in a still richer" reward. You 
might have made your heart so large with loving 
that it would take in the outcast, the stranger, 
even the wicked. You might have turned ene- 
mies into friends; you might have the bad love 
goodness by seeing you so good ; you might have 
softened hard hearts by your gentleness, so that 
the goodness which was hidden away in the dark- 



THE TALENTS. 177 

est corners of them should come out beautiful and 
fruitful; you might have done a great deal by 
your quiet example to make men love each other 
better, and care for each other more tenderly ; 
you might have healed quarrels, put away jeal- 
ousies, appeased angers. Added to that power in 
society, which is always trying hard to push off 
the heavy wrongs that curse mankind, you might 
have done your part to free the slave, to convert 
the slaveholder, to reclaim the criminal. It was a 
noble talent that I lent you. I have no nobler 
than this. No matter if it does not make you 
great or fine, it gives you a place in the kingdom 
of heaven : better than that, it creates the king- 
dom of heaven in you. 

a But you have not done any of these things ; 
you have not helped add to the peace, and joy, 
and happiness of your fellow-beings; you have 
not blessed the poor, or aided the weak ; you have 
not taken the trouble to make your own home 
happy; nay, you have not even cared to gladden 
your own heart. Very well; the loss is yours. 
Give me the talent back, then, just as I gave it 

to you." 

12 



178 STORIES FROM THE LIPS OF THE TEACHER. 

The man began fumbling round in his old rub- 
bish-room of a heart, trying to find the little seed 
of love which was planted there, and at last he 
drew forth a poor, dried-up, wizzled, black thing 
that had once been a Love, — that was all there 
was. The talent had not been used, and so it had 
perished. 

And the lord said : a Behold, he that uses his 
gift has all gifts; he that abuses his gift has none. 
The faithful artist and merchant have, besides 
their talent and the honor it brings them, this 
other talent of the good heart. You, beside los- 
ing the good heart, have lost the honor too. 
Their faithfulness has added to wealth and fame 
the love and blessing of their fellows. Your un- 
faithfulness has deprived you of wealth and fame, 
as well as of Love." 




THE PHARISEE AND THE PUBLICAN. 




HE temple at Jerusalem must have been 
one of the most splendid-looking build- 
ings in the world, though a great many 
were larger and more imposing in their display of 
architecture. It stood on the top of a high rock, 
which had been cut level at the summit to receive 



180 STORIES FROM THE LIPS OF THE TEACHER. 

it, and the buildings rose on terraces one above 
another, so that they presented at a distance the 
appearance of a lofty pile. The highest building 
of all could be seen from all parts of the city, and 
looked like a snow-covered mountain, so white was 
the marble it was made of, and its front was so 
covered over with plates of gold that it was like 
a second sun in the heavens. The whole was sur- 
rounded by a strong wall, pierced with several gate- 
ways. The " beautiful " gate of Solomon's porch 
was on the east side. Entering by this gate, one 
passed through a double row of marble porticos, 
with cedar roofs, supported by tall columns, and 
within these porticos was avast court, called the 
Court of the Gentiles, where people of all nations 
might meet. At the sides were rooms for the 
servants of the temple, eating-rooms and sleeping- 
rooms, booths and shops, stalls for oxen, sheep, 
and other animals, which were on sale there for 
offerings to Jehovah ; tables where men sat sell- 
ing doves, selling salt, meal, wine, or changing 
money for those that came to buy. The mosaic 
floor of this place was covered sometimes with 
scraps of paper, bits of rag and rope, and all sorts 



THE PHARISEE AND THE PUBLICAN. 181 

of litter, such as one sees in a market-house. But 
usually it was clean, and, though many people 
might be there, except on great festival occa- 
sions, the place was still. 

Fourteen steps led from this Court of the Gen- 
tiles to another court, not so large, but still very 
spacious, which none but Jews were allowed to 
enter. And out of this, again, one went up fif- 
teen steps to a third court, still passing into it by 
a very splendid gate. This court was very broad 
and magnificent. It was enclosed on all four 
sides by grand colonnades, and at the eastern end 
stood the handsome altar for the burnt-offerings, 
that is, for the sacrifice of animals which were 
killed, and burned by fire. 

It was probably in the outer court of the tem- 
ple that the scene occurred which Jesus describes 
in the following story. 

Into the great square of God came two men to 
pray. One of them belonged to that class of peo- 
ple who were called Pharisees, — a name which 
means "separated," set apart from the rest of 
the world. They who bore it regarded them- 
selves as superior to all other mankind, fancied 



182 STORIES FROM THE LIPS OF THE TEACHER. 

that they were made of finer clay, that God 
thought a great deal more of them than he did 
of .most folks, took better care of them, gave 
them higher thoughts and purer feelings, and 
kept the best seats for them in heaven. They 
were very lofty in their look and behavior, and 
moved about in the great cities as if everything 
belonged to them. They had the fine houses, 
they went to the handsomest synagogues, they 
brought the most costly and regular offerings to 
the grand altar of the temple, paid for the wax 
candles, contributed more than any other class of 
people to the support of the worship, because 
they thought that in doing so they gained God's 
favor. They used to boast how much they put 
into the treasury, and almost any day you might 
see one, perhaps more than one of them, come in 
at the hour when the crowd was greatest, and 
pompously drop his piece of gold into the box, 
for the poor. 

The particular Pharisee with whom our present 
story is concerned was a tall man, of handsome 
and stately person. His grand beard lay massive 
on his breast, his face was smooth and full, his eye 



THE PHARISEE AND THE PUBLICAN. 183 

clear, and with that look of confidence which 
marks the gentleman of good standing in society. 
He wore a long robe, full and flowing, of costly 
material and rich color, with a deep border all 
round the skirts of it, and edging of the same 
pattern on his ample sleeves. A heavy gold 
chain hung from his neck, his fingers were 
adorned with rings, his sandals were bound on 
with fine leather and decorated with glittering 
stones. On his forehead, tied on by strings 
which went round his head, was a wide band of 
silk, called a phylactery, on which was embroid- 
ered this verse of Scripture : " Stand aside ; I 
am holier than thou." 

The man came in by the grand gate, made his 
way superbly through the multitude of kneeling, 
prostrate people, — many of whom were obliged 
to move out of the way that he might pass, — 
proceeded to the most conspicuous place, and, 
standing upright in full view of all who chose to 
see, uttered this prayer in a loud voice : — 

" God, I thank thee that I am not as other men 
are. I thank thee that, while other men drive 
hard bargains, cheat, lie, steal, defile themselves, 



184 STORIES FROM THE LIPS OF THE TEACHER. 

I am honest and clean, always telling the truth 
and paying my debts. I thank thee, that, while 
other men get a livelihood by collecting taxes for 
the Eoman government, I hate the Eomans with 
a good Hebrew hatred, and should be glad to see 
them all destroyed. I thank thee that I am a 
pious member of the old-fashioned Jewish Church, 
that I never went to the preaching of Jesus of 
Nazareth, nor gave any countenance to that crazy 
son of a Galilean carpenter, nor had anything to 
do with his doctrines, except to spew them out of 
my mouth. I thank thee that I am saved from 
all error and unbelief, from all desire to know 
more about the Bible than my fathers knew, and 
from all wish to think otherwise of thee than they 
thought ; that I abhor the Greek and the Samari- 
tan even as thou dost, and do all in my power to 
secure the kingdom of Heaven to the chosen 
children of Israel. I thank thee that I believe 
in Moses and the Prophets, and in all the Law, 
that I am diligent in proving the sincerity of my 
belief by my good works, and that I am sure of 
happiness hereafter, while the Sadducees, and 
Essenes, and publicans, and all other sinners, will 



THE PHARISEE AND THE PUBLICAN. 185 

be doomed to everlasting destruction. And now, 
Lord, behold what I do for thee ! Twice every 
week I eat no meat; I am constant at my morning 
and evening devotions; my sacrifices are many 
and costly ; I make rich gifts to the temple ; I 
have built a synagogue for the poor at my own 
expense ; my phylactery is the broadest in Jeru- 
salem ; a tenth part of all my income is given in 
alms to the needy, and for the support of the 
public worship. I have done all I could to over- 
throw and punish those who lead the people 
astray by false teaching, telling them that the 
pure in heart shall see thy face, and that the 
poor in spirit shall inherit the kingdom, — those 
that preach deliverance to the captives and talk 
to the common people about the good time com- 
ing. Morning and night my prayers rise to thy 
throne, that such may perish from the face of the 
earth. So will they ever rise. Amen." 

His prayer ended, the Pharisee turned to leave 
the temple court. Again he was obliged to pass 
through the crowd. Here was a group of labor- 
ers to be avoided, there was a poor fisherman, 
whose clothes were dirty with the stains of his 



186 STORIES FROM THE LIPS OF THE TEACHER. 

boat. Passing by one of the treasury-boxes, a 
thin woman, wrinkled, bent, sorrowful, in the gar- 
ment of mourning, jostled him in the effort to 
drop two little bits of copper into the chest. He 
darted a look of contempt at her, and, pushing on, 
met the glance of the Galilean Jesus, who stood 
close by with two or three of his followers, talking 
evidently about him and that very woman. The 
Pharisee drew himself up to his full height, folded 
his robe about him, tossed his head in the air, and, 
with an expression of supreme disgust, hastened 
along, hot and angry, but trying to cover up his 
rage by putting on an air of superb indifference. 

Now he has escaped the throng of people ; he is 
near the grand colonnade which goes round the 
enclosure ; he is about passing out into the street, 
when, in the shadow of one of the pillars, out of 
sight almost, but directly in his path, he saw 
what? A publican, kneeling at his prayers. A 
moment more the borders of his garment would 
have brushed against the prostrate figure ; he 
only saved himself from the polluting touch by a 
rapid movement, by which the robe was snatched 
out of the way. Fortunate escape ! If he had 



THE PHARISEE AND THE PUBLICAN. 187 

touched that wicked man, he would not have 
been clean again for a week. Blessing his stars 
for coming off so well, and thinking that the cor- 
ner of the street was, on the whole, a better place 
to pray in than the temple, he left the building 
and went to his home. 

And who was this man kneeling in the shadow 
of the pillar ? He was, as I have said, a publican, 
that is, a man whose business was to collect taxes 
from the people for the support of the govern- 
ment. Now the men who come round to collect 
taxes are never very much liked, even when the 
money raised by the taxes is spent for public 
schools, hospitals, the paving of streets, the light- 
ing of cities, or any other thing which is useful, 
good, and necessary. But the money raised by 
the taxes which these publicans collected was spent 
to maintain a government which the people detest- 
ed ; to pay soldiers by whom they were insulted 
and oppressed ; to enrich rulers who took away 
their liberties, deprived them of their rights, and 
would be glad to destroy their religion. Of course, 
the men who collected this money were hated by 
everybody because they did it. They were looked 



188 STORIES FROM THE LIPS OF THE TEACHER. 

upon as traitors to their country, enemies of their 
church, foes to their God, — in a word, as little or 
no better than the heathen themselves. They 
were hissed and scorned on all hands. It was as 
much as a man's reputation was worth to walk 
with one of them in the street, accept their hos- 
pitality, or even sit down to the same table with 
one of them. It was one of the bitterest charges 
against Jesus, that he dined with publicans. 

But the publicans were no worse than other 
men. They were probably as honest, as truthful, 
as just, as charitable, and as kind, as their neigh- 
bors. Their occupation was regarded as a dis- 
graceful one, but they did not like it any better 
for that ; they did not enjoy being pointed at and 
spit upon. Somebody must do the work, and per- 
haps they did it more gently and tenderly than 
it would have been done by other hands. It was 
better that Jews should collect the taxes from 
Jews, than that Romans should, for the Romans 
would do it harshly and cruelly, in a way that 
might breed quarrel and lead to bloodshed. The 
publicans did the business, because it was the only 
business they found to do, more was the pity, or 



THE PHARISEE AND THE PUBLICAN. 189 

because it was the business they were best fitted 
to do. They had families to support, and chil- 
dren to feed ; and they did it by collecting taxes, 
as other men did it by catching and selling fish, 
by breeding sheep for the market, by letting 
houses to the poor for high rents, or by moulding 
candles for the temple service. They did the 
work, very hard and disagreeable work too, and 
they took their profit for it, — profit which some- 
body else would have taken if they did not, and 
very likely less than somebody else would have 
taken. What I mean to say is, that these people 
were not to be despised for their business, were 
not to be called wicked because other people did 
not like their trade. Their trade did not hurt 
them, did not make them impious or hard-hearted. 
Their trade did not hurt their fellow-beings, as the 
trade of the dram-seller, for example, does. Those 
who carried it on might keep their honor and 
purity, their love to God and man as clean 
and whole as any class of persons in the world. 
Many of them did so ; there must have been 
good in these publicans, or Jesus would not have 
had so much to do with them. You must have 



190 STORIES FROM THE LIPS OF THE TEACHER. 

marked this, that he never pours out his wrath 
on them as he does on the Pharisees ; that he 
never holds them up to public scorn; that he 
never says they cannot come into the kingdom 
of God. On the contrary, it is a standing accu- 
sation and reproach against Jesus, that he keeps 
company with the publicans, dines with them, 
stays at their houses, admits them into the num- 
ber of his friends. The truth is, these people 
were drawn to Jesus; they heard eagerly what 
he had to say ; they welcomed his new Truth ; 
they loved him; they took pains to meet him 
and show him attention. One of them, who 
was sitting at his office door as Jesus passed by, 
rose instantly at his call and became his disci- 
ple. This was Matthew, the writer of the Gos- 
pel which bears his name. And here it is a 
publican whom Jesus sees at his prayers, and 
praises for his humility. 

To return now to this man kneeling in the 
shadow of the great stone pillar, near the temple 
door. He had come in quietly and gone to this 
out-of-the-way spot, where nobody could see him, 
in order that he might be quite alone with his 



THE PHARISEE AND THE PUBLICAN. 191 

thoughts, and he would have gone out as unno- 
ticed as he came in, had not the eye of the Great 
Teacher, as it followed the tall Pharisee picking 
his way among the people, noticed the sudden 
twitching up of his robe, and seen the dark figure 
crouching low on the pavement. The man re- 
mained bowed and motionless as he was at first. 
He felt neither the proud glance of the Pharisee, 
nor the tender one of the Master ; he was not 
conscious that the one despised him, nor that the 
other praised ; he had no idea, as he knelt there^ 
his forehead close to the stones, and his hand on 
his heart, that he was watched by the wonderful 
person who made all the world see what he saw, 
who took photographs of men and women, and 
hung them up in his divine picture-gallery, for 
the ages to look at ; little did he dream that his 
portrait, taken on the spot, would be placed in 
that gallery to show east and west and south 
and north the image of the true worshipper. 
He was too much absorbed in his meditations to 
note what went on around him. 

Silent he bent himself forward : not a loud word 
escaped his lips ; his prayer was inward, and it was 



192 STORIES FROM THE LIPS OF THE TEACHER. 

very short. He had nothing to boast of in the 
presence of his Maker; he' did not come to that 
place with a long list of his good thoughts and 
deeds ; he did not care to say how many times 
he fasted and prayed, how much he loved the 
church, and how much money he gave to the 
poor; he did not feel like complaining of his 
hard lot, of the scorn men heaped on him, the 
frowns, the hisses, the kicks he received ; he 
cursed nobody in his devotions, nor did he ask 
God to withhold a single blessing from any one 
of his fellow-men; he claimed no reward here 
or hereafter for any service he had rendered to 
his fellow-creatures, nor did he imagine he would 
have a better place in heaven than the lowest of 
the Almighty Father's children. He remembered 
only what he had not done, what he had not been, 
what he had not deserved, how many good things 
he had never given thanks for, how many times 
he had told the untruth when he should have told 
the truth, how many times he had disbelieved 
when he should have believed, how many times 
he had closed his hand when he should have 
given, how many times he had been angry with 



THE PHARISEE AND THE PUBLICAN. 193 

those who treated him ill, and had hated those 
who abused and spurned him. As he knelt in 
the shadow of the tall column, another shadow 
fell upon him, the shadow of his own unworthi- 
ness, the shadow of the great judgment. He 
could not stand up on his feet, he could not 
loftily erect his head, he could not lift up so 
much as his eyes to the heavens; he could only 
smite upon his breast, in sign of grief, and mur- 
mur, u God be merciful ! God be pitiful ! " 

But that little murmur found its way out of his 
humbled heart, rose above the noise of the mul- 
titude, and the smoke of the incense, slid through 
the air out into the infinite, up to the Eternal, and 
came back to him, like the dove with the olive- 
branch, and rested softly in his heart. 



THE END. /& <S> 






Cambridge : Stereotyped and Printed by Welch, Bigelow, & Co. 



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FOR 

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